The Measure of a Man
by Lilac Reverie
Summary: Following Don Diego through the years Felipe was missing. Companion story to my Ballad of El Halcón.
1. Chapter 1 - Part One

**Author's Note:**_ This is the second story in my Zorro trilogy_._ If you read __The Ballad of El Halcón__ first (and I strongly recommend you do), there may not be many HUGE surprises in this one, since they will cover roughly the same events and time period, but hopefully this will still be entertaining and satisfying._

_PLEASE NOTE this is NOT the "Journal of Diego de la Vega" mentioned (twice) in the other story. That would have been a secret daily journal Diego wrote about his adventures as Zorro, which predate the events herein. In fact, that journal would have been the basis for the TV series we all love. I am not going to attempt to redo any of it. _

_I will, however, be referencing at least a couple of episodes, in particular _An Affair to Remember,_ but will hopefully be descriptive enough that it won't matter if you don't remember them. _

_This is an interesting exercise, writing (many of) the same scenes from the perspectives of two very different characters (and Felipe's ostensibly writing his memories several decades later). Do not expect them to match up exactly!_

_Disclaimer: I have no idea who (if anyone) owns these characters now; I sure as heck don't._

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

Diego lurched raggedly in and out of consciousness, his head spinning in time to waves of nausea and agony, laying on his stomach on his thin bedroll in the tiny two-man tent he shared with his partner Jaime Mendoza. His back was a single mass of fire, the skin having been ripped open and torn away in dozens of places by Corporal Pedrona's heavy bullwhip. They'd only given him twenty-five lashes, but the Corporal, grinning evilly at this chance to take down his despised targets, had made certain it was laid on hard.

Diego was aware at times of Jaime weeping softly as he sat slumping on his own bedroll beside him, keeping watch over his friend and carefully tending the wounds with clean rags and plain water. Everyone else in the camp stayed far away. Around noon, Jaime had pulled out a couple of pieces of army hardtack, but hadn't tried very hard to get Diego to eat any, knowing from his own long history in the army that it was futile. He'd tucked a piece into Diego's hand and left it for him to gnaw on eventually when he could, while he nibbled slowly and half-heartedly on his own. He'd also come up with some evil-smelling salve at one point and smeared it across Diego's back, nearly making him scream again before he passed out once more. Diego didn't object, though; he knew his friend was only trying to help, and the salve was supposed to stop the bleeding and help those horrific cuts heal.

During his rare lucid moments, one thought kept returning: _How could it have come to this?_ Only a short time before, he'd been on top of the world: riding high as the masked avenger known as Zorro on his magnificent stallion, Toronado. Playing tricks and making his opponents, including various government officials and the successive venal (and stupid) alcaldes of the pueblo of Los Angeles, look even dumber than they were. In love with, and loved by, the most beautiful and bravest woman in the world. He had even won her hand in the end.

Now here he was: broken, beaten, lashed. A shell of a man. A shadow. Someone to be laughed at and pitied, not admired or feared. All his fancy, high-minded principles lay shattered in the dust, abandoned along the long, lonely trail which had led to him lying in this tent with his back in shreds.

_How?_

* * *

**PART ONE: CALIFORNIA DAWN**

**ONE**

There had been no omens warning Diego that this day would change his life forever. No portents, no auguries, not even a funny feeling in his gut – and he did get those from time to time; Zorro always knew _precisely_ when to make his exit. But today... nothing.

He and Felipe had been out most of the night before, liberating a handful of innocent native men of the local Indio tribe from the clutches of a press gang come to collect "recruits" for the Army of New Spain. The idea infuriated Diego; he considered the gang the same as slavers, condemning their uncomprehending captives to near-certain death fighting against the nascent Mexican rebellion. Zorro had been careful to wreak a bit of havoc in the gang's camp, both to slow down any pursuit to let the natives get clean away, and to hopefully discourage the press gang from returning to California. He'd made a careful mental note of the leader's face and name when he saw them in the pueblo earlier in the day.

The two of them made it back to the secret tunnel under the hacienda about an hour before dawn, Felipe perched on Toronado's rump behind Diego – he had located the camp and captives himself earlier, streaking back to tell Diego, and so went along as a guide, also serving to help the men escape into the brush. Diego sent the boy off to bed to get what sleep he could, taking care of Toronado himself before collapsing into his own sheets.

He was deeply asleep a few hours later when he was awoken by Don Alejandro shaking his shoulder. "What are you doing still in bed?" his father asked gruffly. "You missed breakfast, lazy oaf!"

Diego brought himself upright, rubbing his eyes and trying to ignore the knife in his heart at his father's words. "Sorry," he mumbled, then motioned towards the book on the bedside table, a thick volume of history. "I was up late last night, reading."

"Well get up," Don Alejandro replied sharply. "You'll have to get something to eat at the cantina later. We need to see the Alcalde, and Rojas, and get that beef contract signed for the next year." The army garrison in the pueblo might not have been their largest customer, but losing it would still hurt – and there were many other ranchos in the area who would be happy to pick up the slack.

As the older man turned away, Diego told himself it was anxiety over the contract and the necessity of dealing with Alcalde de Soto that made his father so impatient, not disappointment at his son's "unmanly" behavior. Not that he believed it, but if he didn't keep up the pretense, he'd lose what little control over himself he had left. He stood and dressed quickly, then peeked in at Felipe still sound asleep – fully dressed under his blanket but for his boots – deciding instantly to let the boy be. He managed to put off Don Alejandro with some nonsense about Felipe having other duties that morning, and off they went on horseback.

It wasn't until a couple of hours later, after the Alcalde (after brushing off the complaints from the leader of the press gang) and Rojas, the garrison cook and supply officer, had finally signed the prized contract for a fat steer each week, and father and son were relaxing in the cantina with coffee and rolls, laughing over something with Victoria, that the earth went crazy. A massive jolt hit the building without warning, nearly knocking Victoria off her feet and into Diego's lap. She grabbed the table with a shriek and managed to keep upright as the tremendous shaking went on, causing bottles of wine and whiskey to fall off the shelves behind the bar.

"What the – " Don Alejandro cried, before Diego cut him off sharply with one word: "Earthquake!" Without thinking, Diego bolted out of his chair as it fell over behind him, tucked Victoria protectively close to his side with one arm, grabbed his father's elbow with the other hand, and pulled them both out the door into the plaza and away from the building, followed by the several other cantina patrons. There they staggered and clutched each other to stay on their feet as the aftershocks rolled through, one after another. They seemed to subside after a couple of minutes, and Victoria started to run back inside, but Diego grabbed her shoulders to stop her again. "Wait! There's always one final big rolling wave!"

He was right. After a few quiet minutes, looking around nervously, a single massive wave visibly rolled through the ground from one side of town to the other, setting the bells in the church steeple clanging.

"How did you know about that?" Don Alejandro asked breathlessly.

Diego shot him a level look. "I read about earthquakes," he replied shortly, managing not to snarl.

"Did everyone make it out?" Victoria called over to the men closest to the cantina, and they nodded.

"We were the last."

"That's it," she muttered, loud enough for the de la Vegas to hear. "I'm punching a door in the back wall."

"I thought you had a back door," Diego said, puzzled.

She glanced briefly at him, rattled and furious about it. "Through the kitchen, yes. But it's hard to reach, and people could get trapped by the oven." Taking a deep breath, she put her hands on her hips, asking with exaggerated courtesy, just this side of open sarcasm, "May I go back inside now, Don Diego?"

"Wait a moment," he replied, brushing past her. "Let me make sure it's safe first."

"You're a building inspector now?" Don Alejandro called after him, then rolled his eyes before following his son inside the cantina. Together they looked around quickly, pushing on walls and stomping on floors and stairs, and checking the fire was still safely inside an uncracked oven; finding no trouble spots they nodded to each other and allowed the upset owner back inside.

"Nothing but some broken bottles," Diego told her. "It could have been much worse. Be careful, there could be more tremors – what they call aftershocks – for a few hours, but they shouldn't be as bad as the first." He started to turn away, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm – then, shockingly, used both hands to pull his head down, and quickly kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Don Diego," she said sincerely, all sarcasm gone. "For saving my life." Didn't she know he'd do _anything_ for that smile?

Blushing, he managed to stammer out, "It was nothing, Señorita." He fumbled, and came up with a flimsy, "You were between me and the door. Easier to bring you along than leave you there," and she laughed and turned away to find a broom. He watched her go, his heart in his eyes, then turned the other way back out into the sunshine.

He made to start over to the church to inspect it, but Don Alejandro stopped him. "Diego! Leave it! We need to get back to the hacienda and make sure everything – everyone – is all right there!"

_Felipe_. Worry for the mute teenager suddenly flared in Diego's mind. Sure, the earthquake hadn't seemed to leave any major damage in the pueblo, but what about their house? He ran to his horse and nearly jumped into the saddle, only barely managing to remember to stay in character and let his father take the lead down the road at a run.

Fifteen minutes later, they found their two women servants, Maria Luisa the cook, and Belinda the housemaid – their only indoor staff – clutching each other in fear in the courtyard in the front of the hacienda, too afraid to go back inside. They had been out back doing laundry together when the earthquake struck, and had crept around to the front to await the de la Vegas' return. No, they had not seen Felipe. Diego ran up the steps and through the front door on his father's heels.

The house, miraculously, seemed entirely undamaged. A few books and knickknacks had come off shelves, and some furniture had "walked" a few inches across the floor, but that was it. But there was no trace of Felipe. His room was empty, his bed unmade – a sight that made Diego stop and stare. Ever since he had been taught how, Felipe had conscientiously – and fastidiously – made his bed wrinkle-free the moment he got out of it, every morning.

Meeting back in the front hall, Diego and Don Alejandro stared at each other for a moment, each shaking their heads, No Felipe. Then, "You check out back. I'll check the barns," his father directed before he went down the front steps again. Diego watched him out of earshot, then turned, not to the back door, but into the parlor. He jabbed at the loose brick that worked the entrance to the secret tunnel and dashed through the door in the huge fireplace as soon as it opened and down the stairs, skidding to a halt on the stone floor below.

Sunlight streaming in through the hidden holes in the cavern roof played across empty space. No one was there – not even Zorro's horse, the black Andalusian stallion Toronado, was in his wooden stall across the stone-lined, vaulted cavern. "Felipe?" he called anyway, listening to the echoes – no other sounds.

Then he noticed that the door of Toronado's stall was in pieces – kicked out by the horse, from the looks of it. He looked around carefully, taking an inventory. The saddle and blanket were still there, hanging over the side of the stall, but the horse's bridle was gone. All of Zorro's black clothes, the cape and the mask, were hanging by the mirror – and so was his silver sword. Nothing else was missing.

_Toronado must have kicked the stall down in fear at the earthquake,_ he realized, _and Felipe must have gone after him with the bridle. He must have. He'll come back soon – or I'll go out and find him._

Lighting a lantern, Diego took it down the long tunnel to check the ground outside the hidden entrance – the tunnel floor itself was all stone and would show nothing. Outside were many prints, coming and going – but it looked like the top sets – the most recent – were Toronado's horseshoes and Felipe's boots, both heading away at the run. He was right. Not that it made him feel much better. Scanning the horizon, he saw no sign of horse or boy.

He scrambled through the brush and out of the little arroyo that hid the tunnel entrance, then walked to the back door of the hacienda, going in as though he had been following Don Alejandro's instructions. His father met him in the hall again.

"Nothing," Don Alejandro told him, and Diego shook his head, same. "But some horses got out of their stalls and ran off," his father continued, "and Miguel is gone. Perhaps they both went after the horses." Miguel was their old stable hand.

"Then we should go look, too," Diego said firmly. After a moment, Don Alejandro nodded.

Four horses had escaped the barn. Diego noticed, but didn't point out, that Felipe's usual mount, a small black-and-white paint gelding, was still in his stall. Don Alejandro followed the small herd's tracks out and towards the east, opposite from the road to the pueblo, but Diego managed to convince him they should split up, just in case. He rode back to the arroyo and tried to pick up the tracks there, but they petered out quickly. No surprise – he had been using that rocky ground a quarter mile from the hacienda, where the arroyo ended, for five years to mask Zorro's comings and goings. Diego kept trying, using all his considerable tracking skills around the perimeter of the rocky apron, but found nothing. He wondered briefly if the earthquake itself had somehow shaken the tracks out of the dirt. He kept riding, spiraling outward, eventually bumping the spiral out to surround the hacienda, but still came up empty.

Hours later, nearing evening with the sunlight giving out, he finally gave up and returned home. Don Alejandro was waiting in the parlor, worried and exasperated. "Where have you been? I thought I was going to have to start a search for _you! _I found Miguel bringing the horses back in half an hour! Did you find Felipe?"

"He's not back?" Diego had half convinced himself the boy had somehow evaded him and returned with the horse, but Don Alejandro shook his head sharply.

"What happened to him? Where did he go?"

"I don't know, Father. I don't know." Sick with exhaustion and distress, Diego walked slowly over to the window and leaned against it, a hand on each side of the wooden frame, staring out into the gathering gloom.

_Where are you, Felipe?_

Behind him, Don Alejandro let out a long, exasperated breath. "He must have run away again."

Diego twisted around to peer at his father. "Why do you say that? He wouldn't run away."

"Oh, and you know that, do you? You _know_ what goes on in that head of his? I don't – and I don't think you do either."

"What do you mean?"

Don Alejandro shook his head. "He cannot speak. He knows – a few hand signs. He never says what he's thinking. Oh, I know, he's always smiling, always willing to help. But..."

"But?" Diego asked sharply, more and more aggravated.

"But many, many times, I have come across him before he knew I was there, and seen such a look of..." He struggled a moment for the words. "Of such black fury on his face. The moment he sees me, he wipes it off and smiles, and when I ask what's wrong, he signs, nothing. You have seen it, too." It was a statement, not a question, but Diego reluctantly nodded. He had seen that look on Felipe's face, and gotten the same reaction. "So can you honestly tell me you know for certain what goes on inside his head?"

Caught, Diego had to shake his head, slowly. "No." But then he fought back. "But I don't know what goes on inside _your_ head all the time, either. And I can't believe Felipe would run away."

"And how can you say that?" His father was dismissive, unbelieving.

Diego flared. "Because he's my _son._ He has been, since the day I found him on that battlefield and brought him home."

"_Your_ son? _I'm_ the one who was adopting him."

"Because you _insisted_ on it for some reason, after I told you _I _was going to adopt him! I let you have it because I was tired of arguing with you! Besides, the most important thing was that he become a member of the family – it didn't matter exactly how."

"Yes, I insisted on it, because I'm a better father than you! I certainly have more experience, anyway!" _And look how that turned out_ hung in the air unspoken.

Stung to the quick, Diego clenched his jaw and looked away, staring at the window again. It was all he could do not to punch something.

Don Alejandro knew he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, Diego," he managed to apologize after a moment's heavy breathing. "I shouldn't have said that." He shrugged with a heavy sigh. "It's done now, anyway – the adoption."

Diego swung back. "Yes, it's done, because you never even wrote up the petition for the court. And now he's gone."

"He'll be back," his father started to reassure him.

"If he _can,_" Diego said sharply. "What if he's hurt – or worse – caught in a rock slide from the earthquake? Lying somewhere with a broken leg?" The visions had been haunting him all day.

"We would have found him," Don Alejandro told him, showing certainty Diego wondered how he could feel. "Our rancheros searched the entire rancho today, looking for him, as well as damage from the earthquake." He waved a dismissive hand, then took a decisive breath. "They brought word that the quake centered northwest, towards the coast. That's where all the damage occurred. Tomorrow, you will take the men in that direction to survey the damage, and do what you can to help."

Diego was staring at him in shock. How could his father react like that? He shook his head finally. "No, I'm not. The men can go without me."

"And what are you going to do?" Don Alejandro was incredulous.

Fury flared within Diego's heart again. "I'm going to look for my son," he ground out. "I'll find him – I'll track him down."

"Oh, and you're a _tracker_ now?" His father scoffed hard, and made to turn to walk down the hall away from his son.

And that's when Diego finally snapped.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

Without warning, an anguished, strangled bellow of pain and rage from five years of humiliation and frustration at his double life clawed up from Diego's gut and wrenched itself out of his mouth. He suddenly found his fists balled beside his face, and realized he was one evil impulse away from punching his own father! Instead, he managed to swivel around, and the blow landed on the wooden window frame, instead, missing the glass but adding badly bruised knuckles to the tally. He stood stock still, gasping for air, using the fresh physical pain to try to bring himself back under control.

"_Diego!"_ Furious, Don Alejandro suddenly unfroze with a vengeance. "How _dare_ you – "

That was as far as he got. _"Shut up!"_ Diego yelled, shocking himself halfway back to normal. He whirled around again, hands up placatingly. "I'm sorry. Please, Father, please..." He didn't even know himself what he was going to say until it came out of his mouth. "If you love me at all, please be quiet and _listen_ to me, just for five minutes." He'd managed to get his voice back down to a normal level. "_Please."_

Don Alejandro was staring at his son as though he'd sprouted horns and green spots. If Diego hadn't put it precisely that way... With an effort, he smoothed his face and crossed his arms over his chest, working on his own self-control until he could say calmly, and very, _very_ dangerously softly, "I'm listening."

Diego took several more deep breaths, slowly lowering his hands. "Do you remember telling me when I was a boy, that Grandfather had told _you_ when _you_ were a boy, that when he built this hacienda before you were born, he had put in a secret passage?"

Don Alejandro blinked at this amazing non-sequitur. "That old fairy tale?" he started to scoff, but Diego rode over him.

"It's not a fairy tale, Father. I found it – I found the passage. And there is something inside of it that you need to see, that will explain everything. Please."

He was now quite certain his son had gone loco, but Don Alejandro was confident of his ability to handle him. "All right," he said with exaggerated patience. "Show me." He expected Diego to turn to the hall, but instead, he went to the big fireplace on the far wall, took down the oil lantern there, and began lighting it.

Lantern lit, Diego turned and pointed. "You see that brick, the one that sticks out just on the left? Push on it."

"Push..." What began as a flummoxed question ended with Don Alejandro ostentatiously humoring his mad son, reaching out and pushing on a the solid brick. It quickly turned to astonishment when the brick gave way beneath his fingers, and then with a click and a whir, the back wall of the fireplace slid aside, and the logs themselves moved backwards into the newly-opened space behind!

Diego handed the lantern to his gobsmacked father, and courteously waved a hand towards the passage now revealed. "After you. Watch out for the stairs."

Not for nothing was Don Alejandro one of the leaders of the community: he adjusted quickly and thought on his feet. "All right," he said calmly, ducked low and walked through the fireplace. Diego took a deep breath and followed.

Standing behind him at the bottom of the stairs, Diego watched as his father held out the lantern and slowly looked around the cavern in growing astonishment at the bits of furniture, the wooden stall, the stacks of hay, turning at last to see the table, mirror, and clothes tree on the left. He watched the look of recognition slowly spread across Don Alejandro's face as the older man took in the black hat, cape, clothes... the silver sword, the coiled whip... and came to light at last on the black silk mask hanging from the corner of the mirror.

"Zorro?" came the astonished whisper. "Zorro has been using our hacienda?" He turned and gaped at Diego, setting the lantern down on the table.

"Yes, Father," was Diego's ultra-weary reply. He plucked the mask off the mirror and began tying it around his face. "And our beds, and our food, and our library, and everything else." Crossing his arms, straightening out of his slight, habitual "Diego" slump, he turned and stared at Don Alejandro, waiting...

And at last, there it was. His jaw dropped slowly to his chest as Don Alejandro recognized the man before him, first as Zorro, then as Diego underneath it. _"You?"_ he breathed. _"You are Zorro?"_ He shook his head, a million memories of Diego being everything Zorro was not crowding in. "But..."

Wearily, Diego reached up and pulled off the mask, then flung it onto the table. "Everything I have said and done as Diego, for the past five years, since returning from University," he began slowly, "has been an act, designed to make me the last person _anyone,_ even _you,_ would ever suspect of being Zorro. And it's worked," he added in despair, turning to place both fists on the table and slumping over them. "It's worked. Far too well. But I can't do it any more. I just... can't..." Tears were forming in his eyes, inches away from losing it. "If I had known, back when I started, how long this was going to last, and how much... how deeply it would hurt... knowing what you think of me..." He shook his head. "I don't think I would have had the courage to begin."

Silence reigned for several breaths. Then, "Madre de Dios," Don Alejandro whispered. "Diego... Forgive me. The things I have thought... and said..."

"You were _supposed_ to think," Diego said over his shoulder. "That was the point. There's nothing to forgive."

"But why?"

That made Diego turn to look at his father. "To protect _both_ of us. Father, it's not that I didn't trust you. But one... tiny... slip... the wrong name at the wrong moment... and _both_ of us would have been on the gallows."

Don Alejandro nodded. "I understand." He looked away a moment, then turned back, his face wretched. "But I should have never have said all those terrible things. A man should not say such things to his son, ever. I am deeply shamed. Forgive me," he added with the air of one not expecting forgiveness, ever.

But Diego was made of better stuff. "I already told you, there's nothing to forgive. Forgive _me_, for lying to you all these years."

His father scoffed. "There is nothing to forgive there, either, my son. I understand the necessity. But Diego..." He took a step closer, putting his hand on Diego's arm. "Everything you have done... all the people you have helped, even saved... even me..." His expression now had turned joyous. "I am _so proud_ of you!"

That did it. Diego's face twisted and he sobbed, while his knees buckled and he slumped down onto them, holding on to the edge of the table for dear life. After a minute he was able to gasp out, "Do you have any idea... how long... I've wanted to hear you say that?"

"Diego..." As though he were a little boy again, his father wrapped his arms around his much taller son's head and shoulders and held him tightly against his chest. Diego turned and hugged Don Alejandro around the waist, and they clung together for many long minutes, tears streaming unacknowledged.

Under control again, they separated, and as men do, left what had just happened without comment. Don Alejandro wiped his face under cover of picking up the lantern again and turning with it to look at the cavern. A thought suddenly occurred, and he asked over his shoulder, "Did Felipe know?"

"Yes, he knew," Diego managed to return after a pause, past both the magnitude of the moment and the renewed stabbing pain in his heart over the missing boy. He got back to his feet. "He's been my accomplice since the beginning." When Don Alejandro turned to gape in surprise, he went on, wanting no more secrets. "I discovered that his hearing had returned shortly after I came back from University – caught him out by accident. He begged me not to tell you. He said – he signed – that he was afraid of losing his place in the family." At his father's uncomprehending look, he shook his head. "I didn't really understand it, either, but... he _begged_ me. So I kept his secret, and he kept mine. I was already planning to become Zorro, figuring out how to do it, and frankly, no one knowing he was able to hear made him the... perfect spy. People said things around him all the time, not knowing he heard, that he could report back to me."

Don Alejandro nodded, snorting a little in rueful comprehension. Diego reached out and took the lamp, then stepped with it across the cavern. "Father, look." He pointed. "This was Toronado's stall. The door has been busted – from the inside. I think he must have kicked it out in panic during the earthquake, and ran off." Lifting the lamp, he moved it towards the entrance to the tunnel, explaining where it came out behind the hacienda, then turned back again, pointing. "The saddle's still here, but not the bridle. The only thing I can think of is that Felipe grabbed the bridle and went out after the horse. He's been taking care of him for five years." He shook his head again, helplessly. "I looked – _I_ looked," he stressed, "but I couldn't find any tracks. They just... disappeared."

"Well then he'll come back when he's caught the horse!"

"Unless he can't," Diego said flatly, reviewing once more the terrible possibilities. "There have been aftershocks all day. He might have been caught in a rock slide, fell and broke a leg..." All at once, determination flared again, and he set his jaw. "I am not going north with the rancheros tomorrow, Father. I am going out to look for my son. And I will keep looking, until I find him, or his body." He spoke with such quiet, level, iron will that it could not be gainsaid.

He turned towards the stairs but before he reached them, his father's mild voice came from behind. "Diego? May I go with you?" Surprise stopped Diego cold, and he half-turned back. Don Alejandro went on quietly, "I think it's time... I got to know my son."

It was a moment before he could reply. "I'd like that," he answered simply.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

Don Alejandro, mounted on his beloved mare Dulcinea, followed Don Diego on his dun gelding a few paces behind as his son led the way to the rocky area just beyond the old, ignored arroyo – which up until now he had never known hid the exit to the "fabled" secret passage from his own father's hacienda. His musings stopped when Diego did, halting in the middle of the small nest of canyons leading in every direction. It was fitting, he now realized: Zorro could get anywhere in short order from this starting point.

Diego wasn't looking at the ground just then, as he had the day before, trying to find the tracks of his lost horse and – infinitely more important – the teenaged Felipe running after him. He stared straight ahead for a minute, before turning to his father.

"I searched all around here yesterday and found no tracks. I think we need a new approach. If Toronado was running flat out, terrified by the earthquake, he most likely would simply have continued in more or less a straight line to get away from it, and Felipe would have followed. I propose we simply keep on this heading – nearly due south – and follow the easiest paths, ones a panicked horse would have instinctively chosen, until we find something."

Don Alejandro nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense to me. Lead on." And so Diego did, at a trot, keeping one eye on the ground for tracks and the other watching for the most inviting path to a frightened horse. A long half hour passed, then suddenly he pulled up, pointing.

"There! Boot tracks – Felipe's boots! We were right!" At this first sign that they weren't following a phantom, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He started to spur his horse on, but then pulled him up again, puzzled at something else on the ground.

"What is it?" Don Alejandro asked. He was a good tracker, himself, but not as good as Zorro.

"How far have we come? Nearly four miles?"

"About."

Diego grinned, then pointed at the half-dozen of Felipe's tracks visible. "He's still running. And in boots."

"Better shape than me," his father grinned back, and they spurred on.

Diego was concentrating on the ground with half his mind, but the other half kept wandering back, thinking about what his father had said the day before about Felipe's black moods. He vividly remembered one day a few months after his return from the University, walking down the hall in the hacienda, and hearing a commotion from Felipe's room. Walking in, he found the boy sitting in his chair, a furious, frustrated expression on his face. The moment Diego came in, he'd turned away and stared out the window, trying to smooth out his face. Diego looked, and saw a thick book lying open on the floor by the wall. He'd heard it being flung in fury and crashing down. Picking it up, he saw one of his own history books – not an easy read for anyone. He looked at Felipe. "You're trying to teach yourself to read?"

Felipe shrugged – but he couldn't sit still, shifting jerkily in agitation.

"I'm sorry. I should have realized." Inside, Diego was berating himself. How could he have ignored the boy like this? "Wait here a moment," he added, then went back to his own room, picked an old, forgotten book off a high shelf, and returned, handing it to Felipe. "Here. This will get you started." It was a basic children's alphabet book and reading primer. "How are you at the alphabet?" he asked belatedly.

Felipe shrugged again, and Diego read it – correctly – as "All right, but not great."

"Come down to the tunnel. I'll help you with it."

He'd apologized over and over for not realizing, before Felipe had cut him off and pointed to the book, determined to learn. It was a frustrating experience, with the boy not being able to vocalize, but merely nod his understanding. Diego was not at all certain how much he really got it. And before much time had passed – nowhere near enough, really – they heard Don Alejandro above, and the lesson was over. Nor were they _ever_ able to snatch much time for lessons after that, between all their packed double lives.

A few weeks later, however, Diego as Zorro returned from a foray one afternoon to find Felipe waiting for him in the hidden cavern, practically quivering with anticipation. "What is it?" he asked.

Felipe pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Diego with both hands.

_My name is Felipe,_ it read in careful block letters.

"That's _very_ good, Felipe!" He was so proud of his informal adopted ward – he'd basically taught himself that much; Diego had not been able to find the time to help.

That was only part of it, though. Felipe reached out and turned the paper over in Diego's hands.

_What is my last name?_

Pierced through, Diego looked from the paper up at the boy staring intently at him, longing written on his face. "I don't know," he had to admit.

Confusion claimed Felipe's face. He signed _You know_ and pointed to the name Felipe on the paper.

"I gave you that name. You know the story of how, and where, I found you, in the pueblo of Marenga." It had never been a secret, but Diego had told him again after his return from University, now that he knew Felipe could hear and understand what he said. "I asked around before we left, but there was no one who could tell me anything, not even your name."

Felipe started to sign something else, but then abruptly broke off, frustrated, and grabbed the paper back. Turning to the small table, he picked up a pencil and laboriously added, _Can you find out?_

"I'm sorry, Felipe. You're right – you're right. I should have tried harder. I'll do so now." Diego stopped and thought a bit, then nodded. "I know some people. I'll write to them and ask for information. We'll keep digging, until we find out. I promise."

Felipe wrote again, _Can we go there?_, and Diego nodded. "Not right now. Let me write those letters, and see what I can find out. And then... we'll go, and look."

But that was the one promise he had broken. He _had_ written to various offices down in Mexico City, but got back only one very vague reply mentioning a military campaign against local rebels in the province in question that year, but with no details. And then other problems had intervened, other crises, one after another. And they had never made the journey south. Felipe's past, his family, even his name, were still simply huge blanks.

Another three miles passed, while Diego pointed out the occasional track by horse or boy. They came to a dirt roadway crossing their path at a sharp angle: the road from Los Angeles south into Mexico proper. Diego stared at the road, then across it where more low rolling hills lead on. No tracks were visible at the junction.

Finally, they decided to split, Don Alejandro taking the road for two miles while Diego went directly ahead, looking for tracks, before returning to meet at that point. Diego had not gone a quarter mile, however, before hearing his father's shout behind him. He had found tracks on the road.

Diego spurred back and took a quick look, then smiled. "Good eyes!" They were the right ones. On ahead, slightly faster – but after only a few miles more, Diego suddenly pulled his horse to a stop. He'd been following both sets of tracks, plainly visible in the dust, but Toronado had veered off and jumped the right bank, heading away from the road. Felipe's tracks followed; he had learned his lessons from Diego well.

"Why would he leave the road?" Don Alejandro was puzzled.

Diego thought hard, then remembered. "There's a spring down that way, a couple of miles off." He held up a hand. "Wait here a minute." He cantered on a quarter mile to make sure their quarry hadn't come back to the road, then returned, and the two men took the bank side by side. In a few hundred yards, the brush closed in and forced the travelers single file onto a definite path – with both sets of tracks visible.

When they came to the clearing containing the spring, Don Alejandro – after craning his neck to see if their quarry were still there; they weren't – held back to let his son read the signs. Watching carefully to make sure he didn't cross any tracks, he rode Dulcinea around to the far side of the spring so she could take a welcome drink, and watched as Diego crossed the meadow back and forth. Finally, he ended up back at the spring, and began narrating for his father, pointing, while his gelding drank his fill.

"Toronado came in and took a drink, there, then started grazing – he must have calmed down by that point. Felipe came in behind, and slowly walked over to him. He caught him there," pointing to the center of the meadow, "and got the bridle on him, then led him back here, where they both drank, and Felipe rested." The boot prints were still plainly visible at the water's edge. "Then..." Diego followed the last path of trampled grass, "he led Toronado over to this boulder to mount up." The white rock was about thigh high. Don Alejandro had followed him across.

But there Diego sat, staring at the ground, bewildered. "What is it?" his father asked.

Diego shook his head. "They stood, here," he pointed, "for some time. Just standing there. You can see how deep Toronado's tracks are – and where he shifted. Then..." Lifting his eyes, he stared south, away from their entrance. "Felipe turned him around, and they kept going south."

"Was he turned around? Went the wrong way?"

Diego shook his head. "Felipe has as good a sense of direction as I do. He deliberately..." He couldn't finish.

At this, Don Alejandro walked his horse up to verify the tracks for himself. The stallion's hoofprints, after standing beside the boulder for a bit, definitely turned and headed south, at a deliberate canter, with no more separate boot prints to be seen.

After a long, long moment, Don Alejandro heaved a heavy sigh. "Well, I was right," he said with no satisfaction. "He has run away again."

"Well, we'll find him," Diego replied darkly, and made to kick his horse after the missing boy.

"Diego!" his father almost yelled, and Diego stopped and stared. "He has a twenty-four hour head start," Don Alejandro went on, "and on _that_ stallion, with _no_ other weight?" He paused. "You will _never_ catch him. He's gone. He's out of your reach."

Diego stared, outraged. Of all the things his father had ever said... "You expect me to just let him go?"

Don Alejandro sighed. "The hardest part of being a father," he began in a low voice, "is knowing when to let go. It _always_ happens too soon. It is _always_ sudden, and sometimes violent. But yes... there comes a time when you have to let go. This is the time. You'll never catch him." The words were harsh, but his eyes were full of compassion and shared pain. He wasn't untouched.

Diego turned and stared south, then started shaking his head. "He's just a boy..."

"He's not a boy. He's sixteen – at least," he amended, reminding Diego that they really didn't know exactly how old Felipe had been when he was found. "He's a young man."

"Who can't talk. Who has nothing – no food, no supplies. No weapons. Just one very valuable horse."

"The horse will protect him. I have faith in Toronado. You should, too," Don Alejandro added, a very gentle jab. Diego still couldn't move. At last Don Alejandro added, "All we can do now is let him go, and pray that some day, he returns home."

Diego still sat staring south for some moments, his face a study in torment. Finally he whispered, "Santa Maria..." Don Alejandro wasn't sure whether he were cursing or praying, then he went on. "Watch over my son... and someday... guide him safely home."

"Amen." Don Alejandro took a deep breath, also gazing south. "Go with god, Felipe."

Reining Dulcinea around, he gestured to Diego, who didn't – couldn't – move... but his horse was used to following its stablemate, and began of his own accord. Don Alejandro led the way slowly back down the path to the road, turning northwest once more.

They rode in silence for several miles, continuing on the road past where they had originally joined it by unspoken agreement. As they passed the corner of their own rancho, Don Alejandro grunted: the fence marking the perimeter had fallen. "Fence needs mending," he sighed.

"I'll do it tomorrow," Diego said dejectedly, his first words since leaving the spring.

"No," his father contradicted. "Tomorrow you will take the rancheros northwest. You will survey the damage from the earthquake, and do what you can to help." He looked pointedly at his son. "_You_ will help, Diego. Whatever it takes. No more masks." He was determined to do whatever he could to prevent his son from falling back into despair.

Diego looked at him, and slowly nodded. Then, "Aren't you coming too?"

"No," Don Alejandro said lightly. "I have work to do."

"What? Fixing that fence?"

"No," he repeated. "I will be writing a petition to the court, for adoption." He glanced blandly at Diego, who was giving him an astonished stare. "When he returns – _when_, not _if_ – he will officially be Don Felipe de la Vega."

Diego looked away, a small smile, trying not to be a bitter one, tugging at his unwilling lips. Reaching out, he placed a hand on Don Alejandro's shoulder.

"You're a good father... Father. To _both_ me... and my little brother."

Don Alejandro covered his son's hand with his own and smiled back, before the two men spurred their horses home.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

Five days later, a small band of tired, dusty men rode slowly up to the hacienda: Diego and his work group of rancheros. The men waited while Diego dismounted, and the honcho gave him a respectful salute, surprising him, before taking his horse's reins and leading it off to the stable with the others.

Turning, Diego saw his father at the front door waiting, and stiffly mounted the steps. "Everything is all right, surprisingly," he began. "Some damage – minor to moderate – to a handful of ranchos," he named off half a dozen dons who lived in that direction, "and some injuries, but no deaths. The earthquake apparently struck hardest further up the coast in Indio territory. I asked the natives I could find, but they said no one died, and since they have no permanent homes or buildings, no major damage."

"Good. Thank you," Don Alejandro said. "You look exhausted."

"I am," came the reply. "And filthy. I'm going to go have a long, hot bath and put on some clean clothes."

Wandering back out two hours later, dressed in his favorite powder blue suit, Diego was surprised to hear voices from the parlor. When he turned the corner, he was even more surprised to find his father chatting with Victoria. Seeing him, she sprang up from her chair and came to him, taking his hands and looking sorrowfully into his eyes. "Your father has been telling me about Felipe. I'm so sorry, Diego. I hope he comes home soon. We will all miss him."

Diego smiled sadly at her past the renewed – only slightly dulled – pain in his own heart. He was grateful for her words, as he knew she really meant them; she was one of the few in the pueblo who had ever paid attention to Felipe. Most people didn't really know how to act around a deaf/mute boy, and simply ignored him as though he weren't even there. But not kind-hearted Victoria. "Thank you," he said simply, then, "what brings you out here today?"

She started to speak, turning towards Don Alejandro, but their elder rode over her as he rose from his own chair. "I asked her to come." He stopped before his son. "Diego, you might hate me for this – and you have every right to do so. But I am stepping in. I _refuse_ to sit here and watch you slowly rot."

Diego had dropped Victoria's hands by then and turned to face his father fully, his brow crinkled in confusion. He had no warning of what was to come.

Don Alejandro leaned slightly towards his son. "Tell. Her. The. Truth. … Now. Today." He raised a finger as Diego drew a sharp breath and opened his mouth to protest. "Or I will," he added simply. Diego's mouth snapped shut. "You have one hour," Don Alejandro added lightly, as if discussing the weather. Turning, he gave a small nod to Victoria before stepping between them, brushing each back slightly, and on down the hall, a pleased smile playing on his lips.

Diego had turned to watch him go, outraged and suddenly terrified in equal measure. He knew better than to argue with his father when he took that tone. Don Alejandro had meant every word. He was trapped.

"Diego?" Victoria's amused voice came from behind his shoulder. "Tell me the truth about what?"

"Me," he managed to get out.

"All right," her voice held nothing but friendliness, prepared to accept anything. She waited a moment, two, three... "Is it something terrible?" she asked gently when he continued facing away.

"Depends on how you look at it," he muttered.

Turning back slightly, he saw out of the corner of his eye as she straightened, her eyes calm and caring, clasping her hands before her body in a patient gesture of waiting. He knew it was genuine. She cared for her friend Diego. The wimp.

He took a deep breath, trying desperately to think. Hadn't he imagined this moment a million times, practicing and playing it out, finding the exact correct words to say, that would lead to her falling into his arms? Only now that the moment had come, his mind was a complete blank, all his rehearsing fled into the night. All he could see was disaster and laughter – her laughter, and her scorn.

But he knew he couldn't get out of it. He reached for the only thing he could think of: the same opening he'd used a few days before. "Señorita, please forgive me," he began, "I'm going to start with... what is going to seem a wild, loco digression... but I promise you... in five minutes all will be clear."

"All right," she said again, encouraging him.

Another deep breath, and he told her, still gazing at the front door rather than her face, of the secret passage his grandfather had built into the hacienda in case of Indio or outlaw attack. Then he led her to the fireplace and – just for something to do with his hands; daylight would still be lighting the cavern through the hidden windows – lit the lantern on the mantel. He was on the left side of the fireplace this time, so he pointed out the brick before pushing it himself to open the secret door. Then he handed her the lantern and gestured, "after you, Señorita," warning her likewise of the stairs.

Below, he watched again as her back told the story – but it stiffened in recognition much sooner than his father's had; she'd been there before. "Please don't turn around," he said softly before she could do so. "I don't want to see the look on your face when you realize..." he couldn't finish.

"Realize what?" She wasn't letting him get away with it, though she didn't turn.

He took another deep breath and forced it out. "When you realize that I am Zorro. Always have been. It's always been me, from the start." She was silent. The line he'd given his father had sounded good, so he repeated it. "Everything I have said and done as Diego for the past five years has been an act, designed to make the the last person anyone, even you, would ever suspect of being Zorro. And it's worked," he ended as before in a ragged whisper. "Far too well."

"What do you mean?" She still hadn't turned, was still holding up the lamp. "Why are you afraid to tell me?" He couldn't divine her reactions from her steady voice.

"Because I don't know if you can reconcile the two men you think you know. I don't know if you can... ever look at me... at _Diego_... the way you look at Zorro."

"Diego..." Victoria began, a note in her voice that, startled, he heard as exasperation. Finally, she turned towards him and, seeing the little table, set the lamp down upon it, ignoring all the clothes hanging nearby. She faced him fully. He was too terrified to try to read her face. "Diego," she began again, then finished with the last thing he expected. "Shut up and kiss me."

He spluttered, gobsmacked. "What?" he finally managed.

She took a deep breath herself – she wasn't as calm and certain as she had sounded a moment before. "Because kisses don't lie. I will know who is kissing me. And then I will know the truth."

Helpless, Diego burst out laughing – managing to stifle it a few guffaws later, throwing up his hands in the face of her incipient outrage and gasping out, "Sorry! You startled me." Another snicker. "I didn't realize I was setting up my own proof of identity that day," he added sardonically, ignoring her twitch as recognition hit home.

He got himself under control, and decided that, although she was patently waiting, he _really_ needed to set the scene to seal the deal. "You were driving your wagon near here, trying to get away from some bandits intent on robbing you, and apparently fell and hit your head, knocking yourself out. I was riding nearby, dressed as Zorro, thank God," he added in a heartfelt, eyerolling aside, "and found you. I got you away from the bandits, but since I didn't have anywhere else to take you, I brought you here for safety."

Her eyes were getting rounder and rounder as she listened to her own memories described. He went on, "A few minutes later you had woken up, and were sitting right over there," pointing to a small pile of hay bales by the horse stall, "looking around at Zorro's lair, while I was trying desperately not to say too much. Then, all of a sudden, Felipe started coming down the stairs – "

"_Felipe?"_ she broke in, astonished at the unexpected name.

Diego nodded. "He's been Zorro's helper since the beginning," he admitted, but didn't elaborate. "So," he sighed, stepping closer to her, "to keep you from seeing him, and putting everything together, I did what I have longed to do since I came back... not from University, but from Mexico City, all those years before." And with that, just as he had done that other time, he took her face gently in both hands, and claimed her mouth with his own.

Victoria stiffened instantly, and she drew in a huge breath – it would have been a gasp if her mouth had been free. Diego slowed the kiss to a crawl, utterly unwilling to open his eyes and draw back to see her face but waiting for her verdict.

And a moment later, she gave it, throwing her arms around his neck and arching her back, pressing against him with her whole body and returning his kiss with passion. He dropped his hands from her face and wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling her as close to him as it was possible to get with clothes in the way, deepening the kiss and returning passion for passion. _She's here._ His only coherent thoughts zinged through his mind over and over. _She's here. She's here._

Several long, ecstatic minutes later, he came to himself, stopped his hands, and straightened stiffly, tossing his head upright, gasping.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

"Victoria, if I don't stop now, I _won't_ stop," he said raggedly.

"Don't. Stop." She returned instantly. He stared. "Please. Diego... If you stop now, you may as well take that sword and run me through, because I won't live till sunset. Please..." Her face crumpled, tears starting as she pleaded with him. "Please. Make love to me. Now, today. Make me your woman. I have been waiting for _so long..._"

Astonished, he stared harder, asking with his eyes if she really meant it. She nodded wordlessly.

Taking another deep breath, he took a single step back, stopping her protest with a raised finger. Then he turned and grabbed Zorro's long black cape from its hook, took it over to Toronado's stall, and spread it out atop the fresh straw he had placed there days earlier hoping for the horse's return. Then he turned and silently held out a hand to her, his eyes blazing.

Face luminous, she came to him, kicking off her shoes as she did. He laid her down gently upon the cape, and proceeded to make both their dreams come true.

* * *

Some time later, they lay side by side beneath the blanket he had pulled from a nearby chest, facing each other. He used a finger to trace her face, and answered all her questions, telling her everything about how it had all come to be, and how painful and torturous the endless separation from her had become. He repeated the knowledge that had been growing inside for months: "If I had known at the beginning how long it would go on, how much it would tear me apart... I don't think I would have had the courage to begin." Leaning forward, Victoria soothed the pain with a long, loving kiss.

But there was something else she needed to know. "Diego..." she began hesitantly, then abruptly sat up, bringing her knees up and clutching the blanket to her breasts.

"What is it, love?" he asked, sitting up beside her and reaching to stroke her hair. How he had longed to use that word!

She struggled for a moment. "Forgive me, I know this is going to come out all wrong. Please understand..." He nodded. "You said... that everything you have said and done as Diego was a lie, an act. Was it? Was it _all_ a lie? Was any part of the man I knew – I _thought_ I knew – real?"

Understanding dawned. Diego nodded, and took a moment to form his answer under cover of pulling his own knee up and propping on an elbow. "The cowardice was an act. The distaste for weapons, or physical activity. The not wanting to get my hands dirty – the fastidiousness. The caring _only_ for books and art – don't get me wrong," he grinned, "I _do_ love art, and music, and literature, and science, and philosophy – " Managing to rein himself in before he got carried away, he added, "all forms of knowledge. And you. Those are real."

That wasn't quite it, apparently. "And are you still my friend? Have you been?"

"Of course!" He was almost outraged. "Victoria... your friendship has been the most important of my life! No matter what happens... no matter what else develops... you will always have my friendship."

She breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Good." At his questioning look, she went on. "When Papa died, and left me all alone with the cantina to run... it was hard. Very hard. But having your friendship – " she smiled, "and Don Alejandro's too. It helped me get through. I don't ever want to lose that."

"You won't," he reassured her.

"And if... something more develops..." she smirked before turning serious again, "will you still be my friend? Or will you put me in a cage? Will Don Diego make Doña Victoria sit down in a chair with a needle in my hand?"

He gave her a wry look. "I don't think I could if I wanted to," he said seriously, before going on, "and I would never want to. Victoria... it's your strength... your intelligence... your actions, always jumping in and doing the right thing... that I love so much. I would never try to change them, or cage you."

"Good!" she said again. "Because you're right... you couldn't." She twisted around to face him again, wrapping both arms around his neck. "You can't change me, and I can't change you," she added with timeless wisdom. "Except for one little thing." She didn't give him a moment's warning, except for the incipient tears suddenly turning her eyes into stars. "I take you as my husband, Diego de la Vega, as I have taken your body into mine. Even if we can't be together publicly – at least, not yet – you're not getting away from me. I will never have another. I will wait, as long as I must, as long as I know you are mine, and I am yours, from this day."

Diego was absolutely floored. All his daydreams of this moment paled in comparison to the real thing, the fire and passion of this woman now in his arms professing undying love. For _him!_ Swallowing hard, he managed to choke out, "And I take you for my wife, Victoria Escalante, for the rest of my life. I will never have another." And he pulled her down to the straw again.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Holding up one hand to stop Victoria, Diego peeked around the corner and spotted the back of Don Alejandro's head as he sat facing away at the dining table reading some papers. Grinning at her new handfasted husband, she squeezed past him, tiptoed up behind his father, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, making him jump. "Thank you, Father," she whispered.

Chuckling, he raised that hand to pat her far cheek. "You're welcome," he whispered back.

Diego came to stand on his other side, affecting a world-weary tone. "Yes, thank you, Father," he drawled. "I'm not angry at you. But I am irritated."

"As is your right to be," the source of the irritation placated him. Leaning back, he called for Maria Luisa down the hall, telling her with a quick wink for the couple that they "have returned from their ride; please serve dinner now." Diego caught Victoria's eyes and swallowed his smirk at the choice of words as he walked around to pull out her chair. "But since when do you call me Father?" Don Alejandro asked the young woman.

"Since today," she replied calmly as Diego leaned over to kiss her cheek.

Don Alejandro's eyebrows shot up, and he watched Diego walk back around and take a chair opposite Victoria, then turn to smile at his father. They saw the answer hit him, and he almost said something, but just then their cook walked in with the first dishes and he swallowed it until Maria Luisa had left again. Then he raised his wine glass. "Congratulations?" he asked softly.

Diego smiled again at Victoria. "Yes," he replied. "Thank you." And the new – albeit secret – couple raised their glasses as well for a silent toast.

"That raises a whole lot of other questions, though," began Don Alejandro, but Diego raised a hand, then pointed down the hall. Listening closely, his father heard the click of a door closing. "Yes, it's safe."

Diego nodded, leaning on his forearms on the table. "Zorro is still a wanted man, and likely always will be," he began, very softly. "But frankly... forgive me, both of you... but I just don't think I have the heart for it any more."

"Because of Felipe?" guessed Victoria, and then Don Alejandro added, "And Toronado?"

"Both, partly, yes." Diego spread his hands. "They are – were – both so much an integral part of the whole business that I – " He paused. "I'm having a very hard time seeing how I can even do it without both of them."

Victoria said slowly, "You sound very certain that Felipe is not going to come back."

Diego stared at his plate. "Not any time soon, no. Or he would have already. It could be weeks, months, years..." _Or never_ hung unspoken. "I can't plan... I have to assume that..." Giving up, unable to say it, he shrugged. "But it's not just that. Now that both of you know, the risk to all of us has gone up exponentially. I can't take that chance with either of your lives. I won't. And like I said... I just don't have the heart."

"What will you do when a situation arises that you would have ridden to meet?" Don Alejandro asked.

Diego leaned back, sighing. He shook his head. "Try to find another way."

"We will come up with solutions," Victoria said firmly. "Not just the three of us, but many others. No," she forestalled the question in Diego's eyes. "Of course I'm not going to say anything. But this entire community has come to rely far too much on Zorro to fight our battles. We need to start fighting our own, as we used to before he came."

"First people will have to realize that he's not coming any more," Don Alejandro commented. "And stop waiting for him."

"Well, maybe..." his son replied. "Perhaps I'll stage something, to make it appear that he is dead."

"No, don't do that," Victoria said quickly.

"Leave your options open," Don Alejandro commented, but she shook her head.

"Leave the people some hope."

"But if I've no intention of fulfilling that hope, isn't that even worse?" Diego wondered.

"I don't think so," she replied. She struggled a moment, then grimaced. "Forgive my blasphemy. But it's a little like the second coming of Jesus Christ. People can still hope for it, even if they don't believe they'll ever see it. And that's not a bad thing. Especially if it inspires them to do good works themselves."

Diego picked up his fork and picked at his food for a minute, considering. Then he dipped his head in acquiescence. "You know what people in general are thinking – and how they'll react – better than I do," he smiled at her.

"And so what about you, yourself?" Don Alejandro wanted to know, and Diego sighed again.

"As much as I am tired of all the pretending, I can't change my ways overnight, or I would be as much as confessing to the Alcalde." He looked at Victoria. "Nor can we be together publicly, as you said below. Not right away. We have to... ease into it slowly." He looked at Don Alejandro. "The three of us are going to have to put on an act over the coming months, not just me. We need to hash out what that will be."

"Well," Victoria told him. "You haven't been around the last few days. You haven't seen." At his concerned look, she gave him a small, nervous smile. "The earthquake – and then all the little ones after – what did you call them?"

"Aftershocks."

"Yes. They made me rattled. Even though the cantina wasn't damaged that anyone could see, I couldn't even sleep inside it for three nights. I slept – if you can call it that – in my new warehouse. And I didn't reopen for business until the day before yesterday. And no one has seen Zorro since then. So..."

Maria Luisa was coming back with the next course, so Diego pulled his hand back from hers across the table and they let her serve. After she left again, Victoria continued, stronger now, decision made.

"So, I will let it be known that the earthquake has made me realize that I'm not getting any younger, and I'm tired of waiting for a man who never comes, never takes off his mask. That isn't even wrong. So I'm going to start looking around with fresh eyes, and re-evaluate my options."

"You realize what that means, don't you, Diego?" his father asked. "As soon as word of that gets around, the Cantina Victoria is going to be swamped with young men – and some not so young – vying for her attention."

Diego, moving only his eyes, looked at his bride for a moment, than back at Don Alejandro. "I'm not entirely convinced that's not what she has in mind, Father. Keep me on my toes."

Victoria reacted with an exaggerated pose of considering the idea. "Hmmmmm." Then she turned to Diego with a challenge in her lovely eyes.

He reacted with a long-suffering sigh. "So, if Diego de la Vega, poor benighted fool, wants to make good on what the earthquake made _him_ realize, that he is in love with his childhood friend, he is going to _have_ to make some changes to his personality and find some cojones – if you'll pardon the term – in order to get her attention."

"I run a cantina," she reminded him. "I've heard _much_ worse."

"Well," remarked Don Alejandro. "This is going to be an interesting year."


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

One midday several months later found Diego and Don Alejandro sitting at their accustomed table near the door of the cantina, picking dejectedly at their lunch and discussing the morning's fiasco with Victoria, who sat briefly at their table whenever she got the chance.

"Of course, nothing we could say made any difference," Diego said in a low voice. "Not even when we offered to pay their taxes ourselves. De Soto just laughed in our faces."

"The two men are bound for the port in the morning, and that's it," Don Alejandro added. "De Soto must already have sold them to a ship's captain."

"_Sold_ them? They are not slaves!" Victoria whispered sharply, outraged.

"No, they are convicted criminals. The captain pays their back taxes and fines, and purchases their labor to pay it off. That's how it works."

"And that's _legal?_ I cannot believe it!"

"Unfortunately, it is," Diego told her. "It's not right, but it's legal. And de Soto picks up their few acres to add to his rancho."

Victoria peered towards the large group of off-duty lancers sitting at the back to see if they needed anything, but they were set.

"We've been very lucky these last few months," Don Alejandro mused. "The Alcalde has been too busy running his new rancho – "

"Which he acquired illegally, too," his son put in.

"It was no more illegal than his work today," sighed his father. "At any rate, he's been too busy with that to wreak his usual mischief in the pueblo – until this week."

"Just when things were really settling down, and I was beginning to think Zorro would never be needed again," Diego murmured, so low that his voice didn't carry beyond the edges of their table.

"You're not thinking – " Victoria said quickly, but he shook his head with a sad smile.

"No. I promised. But I am finding to my chagrin that I went to that solution so often, to the exclusion of others, that now I can't even think of any other ways to handle situations like this."

Three ragged-looking drifters standing at the bar raised a ruckus just then, and Victoria went to serve them another round, leaving the de la Vegas to continue discussing – and discarding – options. There didn't seem to be any way to save the two farmers from their fate, leaving behind two destitute young families.

Then Diego turned his head sharply. The largest and oldest of the three drifters had moved to the end of the bar and was refusing to let Victoria get by, insisting she "pay" him for the privilege with a kiss, while his two companions hooted and egged him on with cries of "Go, Reyes!" and "You know she wants it!"

"No," she told him firmly. "I told you, I am not interested. Please let me pass."

"Oh, come on, girlie, just one kiss!"

Sighing, Victoria crossed her arms and turned her head, staring off to one side. The drifter Reyes oozed closer, lowering his voice to an insinuating whine. "Come on, girlie. Everybody knows you're looking for a husband. I could be your husband – even if it's just for one night. You know you want it." He lifted one paw and ran it over her hair, aiming for her neck – and lower.

"Excuse me," came a new voice from the drifter's elbow. He jerked his head around to see Diego standing there wearing a determinedly pleasant expression. "She said no. Now let her pass."

"Buzz off, pretty boy," Reyes sneered. "You don't own this cantina."

"No," Victoria told him. "I do. And you are no longer welcome in it." Lifting one hand, she brushed off his paw, then quickly stepped back around behind the bar away from his reach. "Please take your friend and leave," she added to the other drifters.

Angry now that his quarry had slipped away, the drifter spat after her, "What, you like pretty boy here instead? I can show you what a _real_ man is, girlie."

"I doubt that very much," she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Diego stepped even closer. "Why don't you just take your attentions elsewhere, señor? They are not welcome here."

"Take my attentions elsewhere?" Reyes mimicked Diego in a mincing voice. "No. I like it here. And you're not gonna stop me." He lurched around to stare into Diego's eyes from inches away – the drifter was only an inch or two shorter. Diego flinched involuntarily away from the man's foul breath, and Reyes sneered again. "Look at you, in your fancy suit. Another rich hidalgo who thinks he owns the whole damn world. You think you're better than me, is that it?"

They had attracted the attention of the lancers by now, the only other patrons in the cantina, who had all turned to watch the altercation. Corporal Rojas stood up and cleared his chair, ready to help, while the others shifted to watch, ready to leap up as well. The looks on their faces said they weren't going to let anyone molest their Victoria, either – although they were curious to see what Don Diego would do. The tall, quiet man had been surprising people lately.

"Yes, I was lucky enough to be born into a family with a little land and money," Diego said levelly. "But that doesn't mean I think I'm better than you. Money, or breeding, doesn't make a man 'better'. That comes from my actions, not any outside factors."

"Actions? Like what?" He was good at sneering, Diego had to give him that.

Reyes was shifting on his feet, almost dancing, and Diego took the opportunity to slip in between him and the end of the bar as he spoke, blocking his path to Victoria. "Like not pressing my attentions on a woman who doesn't want them, for one thing. Like leaving people alone when they ask, and minding my own business, for another."

"So why don't you do that, pretty boy? Mind your own business!"

"I am," Diego growled, dangerously soft and low. "Leave her alone."

Reyes rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, using the motion of his head to check if anyone else was near – and then flipped into throwing a punch at Diego's head. Diego had seen that move too many times as Zorro to be fooled by a drunken idiot, however, and neatly ducked aside, then used his own twist to wind up a roundhouse punch to Reyes' jaw. Reyes flew back several feet, astonished at the power of the pretty boy's punch, and landed on the floor near Don Alejandro's feet, knocking his table a few inches aside.

Bad mistake. Don Alejandro speared the back of Reyes' head with a outraged stare as the drifter bellowed and started to wallow to his feet, then calmly picked up the nearly-empty wine bottle from the table and smashed it over Reyes' noggin, knocking him out cold.

"Victoria!" he called calmly, picking up his fork again. "Another bottle of red, por favor."

Everyone else burst out laughing, then Corporal Rojas – who had begun to launch himself at Reyes as the fight broke out, then stopped – marched over to Reyes' two companions and calmly ordered them remove themselves and their friend from the premises, "and don't come back, until you learn some manners." They sheepishly complied, as Victoria brought out her broom – and another bottle, which she presented to Don Alejandro with a formal curtsy and her heart-melting laugh as he gallantly kissed her hand. She made sure to thank the corporal, as well, while her sideways glance at Diego promised him a much more interesting reward in private.

A few minutes later, just as things were finally settling down again, Ignacio de Soto himself stalked in through the open front door, followed a few steps behind by his shadow Sergeant Jaime Mendoza. The Alcalde was furious – but when his eyes fell on Diego sitting at his table, his expression turned triumphant. Mendoza decided to quietly step over to the bar and keep his distance.

"De la Vega!" de Soto snarled. "O-oh, I have got you now. How much of a fool do you take me for?" He leaned far over the table and spat a name inches from Diego's face: "Zorro!"

Diego didn't have to feign bewilderment. He knew damn well Zorro had made no appearance in the months since the earthquake. "What in the world are you talking about?" Inside, he was worried, though: hadn't he been careful enough, even recently?

"You thought you and your... _accomplice.._" de Soto sneered with a glance at Don Alejandro sitting across from Diego, "could distract me with that ridiculous little scene in my office this morning – and then later you snuck back in and let those two tax cheats loose!"

"Torres and Aranjuez have escaped from your jail?" Don Alejandro cut in, astonished.

"Don't play stupid with me, de la Vega," de Soto snapped at him, then turned back to Diego. "Of course they did. _You_ let them out! And you left _this_ behind on the floor!" De Soto slapped a torn, palm-sized scrap of paper down on the table. It had only one thing on it: a large black Z. "You never could resist autographing your work!"

"This happened this morning?" Diego asked calmly.

"I checked on them right after you left. And now they're gone!" de Soto crowed.

Diego lifted a hand and pointed to the table. "I have been... _right here_... since we left your office. I haven't even stepped outside to use the casita," he added, using the common euphemism for the outhouse.

"Oh, and I suppose _he_ is going to vouch for that," de Soto sneered, tipping his head towards Don Alejandro, his meaning plain. "Why should anyone take your accomplice father's word for that?"

"No," said Diego. "_They_ are." And he hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the silently watching table of off-duty soldiers.

De Soto whipped around, another sneer on his face – only to be stopped cold at the sight. He apparently hadn't noticed them on his arrival.

Corporal Rojas stood up nervously. "Don Diego – and Don Alejandro – have been here at least two hours, Señor. We have all seen." He wilted back to his seat again under the Alcalde's furious glare.

"Someone is playing tricks on you, Alcalde – or Zorro is riding again. But it wasn't me." If anything, Diego's continued calm only infuriated de Soto further. He required a minute to get himself under control, then whirled around again to the soldiers. "Get your horses ready and mount up! You're on duty right now – to track those two criminals down and bring them back!"

The lancers scrambled up and ran out the door in a mad rush, anxious to get away from their loco leader. With a final glare at both the de la Vegas, the Alcalde turned and marched out behind them, leaving the de la Vegas and Victoria gaping.

Victoria stepped quickly to Diego's side, staring at him, the question she didn't ask aloud written on her face. He returned the look, brows raised innocently, not saying aloud _it wasn't me! You know that!_

"Then who? Who is... playing at Zorro?" she whispered to both men.

Diego shrugged elaborately – and then, as he shifted, he caught sight of Mendoza still standing by the bar, nearly in tears as he tried to smother the laugh threatening to tear out of him. Diego pointed an accusing finger at him. _"YOU!"_ he said in a piercing whisper.

Mendoza saw and hurriedly straightened, trying desperately to wipe the grin off his face and replace it with innocence. "Me what? Where?" he sputtered, fooling no one.

As the three gaped at him, eyes bulging, an aggravated shout came from outside: _"MENDOZA!"_ De Soto, of course, calling his sergeant. Jaime whirled around, pulling his jacket down sharply and jamming a blank expression on his face by long military habit, and marched quickly, ramrod straight, out the door.

Leaving the three of them to stare at each other before melting in astonished laughter.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

"Well," Don Alejandro said half an hour later, "We'd better be heading for home, Diego. We have a lot of work to do."

"I hope those men got clean away," Diego replied, referring to the two who had just escaped from de Soto's jail, apparently let go by Mendoza, pretending to be Zorro.

Victoria walked them outside, but as the men turned to give their farewells, a commotion from across the plaza by the gate into the garrison barracks caught their attention. Alcalde de Soto was actually physically shoving a disheveled Jaime Mendoza out the gate, swearing a blue streak at him nonstop at the top of his voice, ending with "Worthless buffoon! Utter moron!"

Jaime stumbled a few steps from the shove, then stood up straight, breath heaving, staring sightlessly across the plaza with huge eyes in an alarmingly pale face. Diego thought tangentially that his uniform looked odd, then realized the rank and unit insignia had been ripped away – literally.

De Soto wasn't finished. "I won't turn you out naked, god forbid! But you will return that uniform tomorrow or I'll have it from your flesh! You are not _worthy_ of it!"

Jaime slowly turned, and matched his apparently now-former boss's volume. "If I am not worthy of it, then I am no longer bound by it!" He stepped back to de Soto and got right up in his face, aweing everyone who had stopped to watch and listen, including the many lancers popping their heads over the wall or through the gate. "You, Señor, are a _disgrace!_ You are not worthy to be an Alcalde! An Alcalde _protects_ the citizens in his pueblo, he does not prey upon them, ripping them off for every peso he can grab! You are no leader, you are a _tyrant!_ A _monster!_ Even a _murderer!_ You have _no honor!"_

"How _dare_ you, you worthless piece of scum! I was appointed directly to this post by the crown!"

"Yes, and it was the _worst_ mistake their majesties have _ever_ made! I _cannot_ believe they knew of your true nature when they did so!"

De Soto's face was distinctly purple by then. He took a huge breath for one final bellow of rage. "Get out! _Get! Out!"_

"_Gladly!"_ And with that final word, Mendoza turned on his heel and marched proudly across the plaza towards the cantina, his head held high. As he approached the three de la Vegas, Victoria broke into applause for the gobsmacking performance, followed quickly by the two men – and then the applause ran all the way around the plaza. Even a few lancers joined in – until the Alcalde whirled around and gave them the evil eye, making every one disappear back inside in an instant.

When Jaime reached them, Don Alejandro stepped forward to shake his hand. "I don't know what started that, but that was absolutely amazing. Well done, amigo!"

"Yes, it was," Diego seconded, also shaking Jaime's hand. "What _did_ happen?"

Jaime gave them a ghost of a smile, just barely keeping on his feet. "Apparently I am not as clever as I thought I was, Señores – at least, not half as clever as the real Zorro, whoever he was."

Diego peered closely, but could detect no digs in Jaime's eyes.

Jaime turned to Victoria. "Señorita, may I have a drink? I desperately need one."

Smiling, Victoria took his arm formally. "Señor, you may have several. On the house."

Back inside the now deserted cantina once more, the four of them sat around the same table, talking and sharing a bottle of brandy – Jaime's request. He was still pale and rattled. "Eighteen years I wore this uniform. Now... nothing." He sighed. "What will I do now?"

Diego opened his mouth to tell the idea that had struck him immediately, but Victoria beat him to it. Putting her hand on his, she smiled. "You will come to work for me. I need some help around here."

Jaime was astounded. "Honestly?"

"Yes! Start today! You'd make a terrific bartender!"

Diego was staring at her, puzzled. She'd never mentioned needing help before that moment. "Or, if you'd like something different," he began as he turned to Jaime, "I was just about to ask you to come out to the hacienda and help me with the horse breeding program I started this summer. I know how good you are with horses."

Jaime was thunderstruck. Don Alejandro gave a shout of laughter. "Two job offers in two minutes! Now that's landing on your feet!"

Jaime looked back and forth between his two prospective employers. "I... don't know which one I would prefer," he began tentatively. "I don't even know how to decide."

"Well, don't for a few days," Don Alejandro put in, sobering but still smiling. "Mi amigo, you need a holiday. Come out to the hacienda and stay as our guest for a while. I don't think I've seen you take more than an afternoon off since you arrived here a decade ago." Jaime shook his head. "Then take it now. You deserve it, for all your years of service."

"But..." Victoria interrupted, an uncharacteristic look of anxiety on her face. "Don't take your holiday just yet, please. I really do need you here, just for a few days, starting tonight. Please?"

Now Diego was concerned. Nothing had changed in the sleepy pueblo in years, and no big events were planned for that evening. "What's going on, Victoria? Why do you need him so suddenly?" He was sitting across from his secret wife, trying to read her mind – and failing.

She looked nervously from one to another, then took a deep breath and let it out raggedly. Clasping her hands on the table before her, she stared down at them and finally quietly admitted, "I have a very bad feeling about Reyes – that drifter who was here before. He doesn't hear 'No'. And he's... _just_ the type to come back around at closing time... and _take_ what he wants."

Now Diego was _really_ concerned, as he never had been before, about the safety of his woman. "Victoria," he said softly, compelling her with his eyes to look at him. "Have you been assaulted before?"

"No!" she rushed to reassure him, then, "but I've come close. So I've learned to trust these... gut feelings."

"Have you asked for help from the garrison?" Don Alejandro asked, as concerned – and surprised – as his son. "That's what they're there for."

Victoria gave the senior de la Vega a sideways glance. "They would do nothing. On orders of the Alcalde."

"_What?"_ Diego and Don Alejandro nearly shouted in tandem.

"It is true," Jaime said sadly, looking at the table. "The Señorita's safety is... not a priority."

"But... _why?"_ That was Diego, looking back and forth between them.

Victoria held up a finger and started counting. "One, I'm a woman, with no husband or other male guardian. Two, I run a drinking establishment. And three, I'm a vocal opponent of the Alcalde. If I were to be attacked, he would simply consider it me getting what was coming to me."

Gobsmacked, Diego could say nothing. _How could I not have known all this?_ "But..." he tried again, turning to Jaime.

Victoria forestalled him, placing a gentle hand on Jaime's arm. "Jaime has been helping me, doing whatever he can – but it has been unofficial... and without the Alcalde's knowledge. And now... I do not trust Corporal Rojas. Oh, he's a good man... but he does not have the cojones to go against the Alcalde."

"And now I can do nothing," Jaime said morosely. "I am sorry – "

"_No!"_ she cried. "You were _not_ at fault for today. But now... now that you no longer bound by this uniform," she plucked at the sleeve, now bare of insignia, "now you can be here _all_ the time. And I will no longer worry."

This was just what Jaime needed to hear. Puppylike, he lifted his head and beamed at Victoria. "Then, Señorita, I would be very happy to take that job. I will protect you every minute. And I think I would like being a bartender," he added.

"Then you can start immediately. We'll get you some new clothes this afternoon." She turned then to Diego across the table. "Ha!" she crowed impishly. "I stole him from you!"

"Very smoothly, too," he approved. "But I'm staying tonight, too. I'm not going back to hacienda leaving you in danger. Together we'll give you twice as much protection from Reyes – and whoever else. You have room upstairs for both of us, don't you?" The private twinkle in his eyes said he might not stay where she publicly put him, though.

"There," Don Alejandro added blandly. "Don't worry, my dear. We will keep you safe."

"Well," Victoria said archly, looking at Diego with a challenge in her eyes. "That's one solution." She began to stand up, then leaned across the table at him for one last dig. "Perhaps you can think of another." And with that, she turned and walked back to the bar, leaving him staring after her ruefully. Don Alejandro was smirking, while Jaime was just confused.

"Diego," his father commented, "if you do not do something soon – "

"What," Diego broke in flatly, challenging. "You will?"

"I might!" Don Alejandro replied. Turning to see Victoria smiling at him from the bar, having heard, he blew her a kiss, making her burst out laughing, then gave Diego the biggest, blandest smile he could manage. Diego just glared and shook his head.

Jaime didn't know what was going on, but he couldn't resist the opportunity. "You would make a _handsome_ couple, Don Alejandro," he said sincerely, then, as Diego turned his glare his way, quickly added with as much innocence as he could muster, "so would _you!"_

Victoria just laughed harder.


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

At last the long day was over. After closing and locking the front door, Victoria set Diego, who had indeed sat patiently in the cantina since returning from a ride to the port for a "quick word with the captain" – his pocket lighter by several large coins – to cleaning the bar and the shelves behind it, and put a broom and wet rag into Jaime's hands, pointing him towards the room in general. Both men tossed her ironic salutes and got to work, while she busied herself in the kitchen, cleaning the day's pots and setting a new batch of beans to soak overnight.

Opening the kitchen's back door to throw out the dirty water, Victoria suddenly found her wrist grabbed in a viselike grip, and she was ripped out the door and and flung against the outside wall of the cantina before she could gasp. Reyes smacked the pot out of her hands and it clattered to the ground, then he was grinding hard against her and shoving his tongue inside her mouth.

He was still holding onto the one wrist, but hadn't grabbed the other, and she made him pay for it, clawing the side of his face with her fingernails while she bit down hard on his tongue. Bellowing, he pulled his face back to grab for her other wrist, and she took the opportunity to let out a piercing scream. Reyes abandoned his groping for her wrist at the sound and drew back that hand intending to slap her hard across the face – but at that second he was hit from the side and thrown several feet away onto the ground. Victoria identified Diego flashing past her as he dove after her attacker, his face black with snarling fury, as she had never seen it before.

Then Jaime was there, urging her to get back inside before he hurried on to the fight himself. She couldn't move, however, frozen to the spot in shock.

Reyes, no longer drunk, had rolled instantly back to his feet and whirled to this new threat. "Back for more, pretty boy?" he snarled, and then waded in, trading tremendous blows with Diego. He even managed to land a couple of torso punches before Diego seemed to pause and pull into himself, then kicked his fight into higher gear. He threw tight punch after punch, almost faster than Victoria could see him move, driving Reyes back into the wall of the cantina's yard.

Reyes was done. Trapped against the wall, he was holding his fists before his face, attempting to protect himself from the onslaught. Jaime ran up behind Diego and threw his arms around his friend, trying to drag him back, yelling for him to stop. It took a few more seconds before it penetrated Diego's infuriated brain, but finally he let Jaime drag him back as he dropped his fists, his lungs heaving, staring murder at Reyes.

Victoria took a step away from the wall, thinking to go to Diego – but then the yard was filling with lancers, shouting at everyone to freeze. Jaime glanced around and then dragged Diego a few steps further back, turning him and pushing him against the other wall out of the way.

The next few minutes were sheer chaos with soldiers – primarily Corporal Rojas, trying to throw his new-found weight around – yelling orders, while both Jaime and Reyes were trying to tell their story, accusing the other of being the aggressor. Diego stayed silent, trying to calm himself down and letting it play out. _Zorro never had to deal with this crap_ flittered through his mind, before he shook his head hard to clear it.

Finally Rojas threw up his hands and yelled _"Silence!"_ at the top of his lungs. When he got it, he pointed first to Diego, then to Reyes. "Señores, you are both under arrest for disturbing the peace."

"_What?"_ cried Victoria, and she ran to put herself in front of her secret husband. "No! Corporal, _please!_ Don Diego was protecting me, from _him!_" She stabbed a finger at Reyes. "Please arrest him for assault! Not my – not Diego!" she managed to correct herself in time.

Rojas wasn't quite looking her in the face. "I'm sorry, Señorita. I didn't witness the attack – "

"_I_ did," put in Jaime. "Or is my word no longer good enough?" Rojas didn't answer; neither did any of the other five lancers in the yard, who shuffled nervously. "I see," Jaime said heavily. "It is not."

"I'm not afraid of going to jail," Diego muttered, but Jaime stopped him.

"You go in that jail, you'll never come out," he whispered angrily in Diego's ear. "You know that, amigo."

Victoria took a step forward. "Manuel, _please,_" she pleaded softly with Rojas.

He still couldn't look at her. "I'm sorry, Señorita. Those are my orders."

She gasped in exasperation. Turning to look at Diego over her shoulder, she said, "See? I told you!" before facing Rojas again. "Corporal, please. It was just a misunderstanding. It is over now. No more threats to the peace. Please."

Reyes snorted, leering at her. "Sure, girlie," he sneered. "A misunderstanding."

She threw him a dagger stare. "The only misunderstanding here was _you_ not hearing _no, I'm not interested."_

"Of course, girlie." Flicking his eyes at Diego, he snorted derisively again.

Aware of Jaime once more grabbing an enraged Diego's arm to hold him back, Victoria tried another tack. "Corporal, can you at least escort that man out of town? He's a drifter, and has _no_ place to stay." She flicked her eyes sideways. "He's _certainly_ not staying here!" She didn't have to remind the corporal that her cantina was the only place in town with rooms to rent. 

Rojas, obviously grateful, seized on the third way out she offered and nodded, turning to Reyes at last with an officious order to leave the pueblo at once. He even stepped in front of Victoria and turned to prevent Reyes from passing close enough to her to say anything further. As the drifter stalked out of the cantina's back walls, surrounded now by the rest of the lancers, Rojas turned to the remaining trio, evidently intent on some last words, but Jaime once more spoke up instead.

"I think I'll go along as well," he commented, "just to make sure he really leaves. Corporal?" At his 'after you' motion, Rojas shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say to his former superior, turned and stalked out. With a final "back in a minute", Jaime followed. As the yard emptied, Victoria let out a huge sigh, then, not looking again at Diego, picked up the pot she had dropped and carried it back inside the cantina kitchen.

Diego was wrestling with the knowledge that, once again, he had not come off looking very well in the exchange. He had not defeated the drifter soundly, nor sent him running as Zorro would have done, nor had he been able to offer any convincing defense of himself to the Corporal, relying on Victoria and Jaime to keep him out of jail. _Is that all I can do without a mask, hide behind her skirts?_ It hadn't been only caution that kept him from "coming out" as a braver, bolder Diego unafraid of physical labor or aggression in the months since the earthquake; in a very real sense, he didn't know who he really was any more. He flexed his hands, shaking them out of their fists at last, remembering the feeling of them hammering Reyes – and realized with a sick, sinking sensation that he'd been pounding out the frustration of these past months and years, as well as punishing the animal who had dared to attack his wife – and neither impulse was particularly noble or civilized.

With an exasperated gasp, Diego pushed himself off the wall and went back inside the cantina, shutting the kitchen door firmly but not locking it against Jaime's return. Victoria wasn't in the kitchen, so he went through to the main room and found her behind the bar, leaning on it on both elbows with her head in her hands.

"Victoria?" he asked softly, and she raised her head with a gasp and a sniff.

"I'm all right," she said, convincing no one.

"No you're not. You're shaking."

"I'm just rattled. You know how I am when I'm rattled." She grabbed a nearby rag and began wiping the bar again.

"Hey, hey, hey," he called, walking up beside her and taking the rag from her hand. "Come here." Taking her near elbow, he gently pulled her around and into his arms. She didn't exactly melt into them, though, standing a little stiffly in her distress. "I love you strong you are," he murmured into her hair, "but you don't have to be strong every minute. Not any more. I'm here."

Somehow that did it. Victoria wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his shoulder, and began to softly cry. Holding her like that, things crystallized within Diego; his father's gentle prodding, his own frustration at this impossible situation, the prolonged public separation from the woman in his arms – occasional secret late-night visits only went so far to soothe that.

When at last she quieted, he nodded to himself. "Enough of this, Victoria. This situation is only getting more and more ridiculous, and unsustainable. Marry me. In church."

Her face still buried in his shirt, she let out a snort. "Oh, that's _so_ romantic."

Diego's face twisted involuntarily into a grimace. "You're right. Hey," he added to the top of her head, getting her to lean back at last to look at him. "I love you, Victoria Escalante. I want you to be my wife. Let's end this charade. I want you to come live with me, and be a family."

Her eyebrows flared. "What about – " she began, but he stopped her with a kiss.

"I don't care any more," he whispered against her lips. "Marry me."

"Again," she reminded him.

"Is that a yes?" he pushed her.

"Yes." She laughed. "Now that I've finished my wedding dress."

Diego raised his eyebrows, astonished. "I didn't even know you were working on one."

"Well, I guess you don't know everything about me, then, do you?"

"No," he answered smugly. "But I'm definitely looking forward to finding out, one by one."

"Diego," she replied. "Shut up and kiss me." Without another word, he claimed her mouth again, wrapping his arms even more tightly around her.

A few minutes went by, and things were starting to get interesting, when suddenly Jaime cleared his throat from the door into the kitchen. "Excuse me," he added unnecessarily.

Victoria gasped and jerked away from Diego, reacting from sheer habit. "Um," she began, her flaming face turned away from Jaime, and started to move away.

But Diego caught and held her tight. "Where are you going?" _Aren't we about to go public?_ he didn't add aloud.

"Um..." was all she could manage.

"Jaime," Diego said pleasantly, turning to his friend while still holding her against his chest, "You get to be the first to congratulate us. Victoria has agreed to become my wife."

"Again," she muttered in her softest voice, face still turned, under cover of Jaime's reaction.

"Hush," Diego said likewise.

Jaime's answer was all anyone could hope for; grinning ear to ear and congratulating them loudly. As Victoria finally turned to face him, laughing, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, then pumped Diego's hand. After a minute, though, Jaime tried (almost successfully) to smear a serious look on his face. "Don Alejandro is going to be _so_ disappointed," he observed, trying not to laugh.

Victoria didn't even try, letting out a ringing peal of laughter.

Diego smiled at his bride, then draped an arm around Jaime's shoulders. "Jaime," he began, "my good friend..."

"Yes?"

"Go to bed."

Jaime blinked, then suddenly raised a hand to "hide" a huge fake yawn. "Oh! Excuse me! Good night!" he added to both, then without waiting for a response, turned and walked quickly up the stairs to the room he'd been given.

Just before closing the door behind him, he heard Diego say quietly below, with such satisfaction as he'd rarely heard in his friend's voice, "Now... where were we?"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's** **Note:** I have just discovered that Patrice Martinez, the actress who played Victoria, unexpectedly passed away last Christimas Eve (2018) after a long illness. Let this chapter stand as my tribute to an amazing actress and a beautiful human being. Rest in peace, Patrice; your many fans will miss you always._

* * *

**NINE**

Three weeks later, Don Alejandro, dressed in his very best, stood silently waiting in the deserted cantina. Everyone else was already across the plaza at the church. Finally, the door to Victoria's room opened and her friend and maid of honor Merida came quickly down the stairs, holding her long blue skirt to one side. "Wait till you see!" she gushed quietly to Don Alejandro. "So beautiful!" At his answering smile, Merida turned to the front door, adding, "I'll go across and tell them to get ready."

Two more minutes passed, then at last, Victoria herself came out of her room, pausing at the top of the stairs. Don Alejandro's jaw dropped as he stared, stunned into silence. She was wearing a beautifully tailored dress of dove-grey silk, several shades lighter than Don Diego's best suit, its close-fitting bodice studded with a multitude of tiny seed pearls cascading to the waist, below which the long, flowing skirt flared dramatically to the floor. Her long curly hair had been twisted into an elaborate coil on the back of her head, with ribbons and a string of pearls entwined in it, and small curls artfully escaping here and there. She took a tiny hitch in the skirt in one hand, and with the other riding gracefully on the banister for balance, Victoria glided slowly and smoothly down the stairs, every inch a lady.

When she reached the bottom and came to him, he reached for her right hand and bowed deeply and formally over it. "Doña Victoria," he began, "I have _never_ seen anything more beautiful."

"Thank you," she replied with a smile. "Although I don't think I quite deserve the 'Doña' yet – officially." She glanced down at her dress. "But I'm glad I look the part – that was my intention."

"You succeeded," he reassured her. "If your father, Paulo, were here, his pride and joy in you would outshine the sun."

A tiny gasp escaped. "Now you're going to make me cry."

"Ah-ah-ah!" he wagged an admonitory finger. "Only tears of joy are allowed today."

"Yes, sir. I'll do my best," she smiled through incipient tears.

"You know," he admitted, stepping closer and placing his other hand atop the one he still held. "It is a father's most cherished dream to find the _perfect_ bride for his son." He shook his head. "Diego could not have done better had he searched the length and breadth of New Spain himself." That brought new threatened tears, but he wasn't finished. "I am _overjoyed_ for the both of you, and _so proud_ that you asked me to walk you down the aisle. And _very_ happy that you are joining our family – officially!"

"Thank you, Father," she choked out, then, "I _can_ start calling you Father, now, can't I?"

"Of course, my dear." And he leaned over to kiss her forehead, a father's blessing. A last shared smile, and then he asked, "Are you ready?"

"No," she replied with a deep breath, surprising him. "One more minute. There's something I want to do first." Drawing her hand from his, she turned to face the bar, and looked around the cantina. "I want to say goodbye to this place. I know," she shrugged, "we're returning right away for the wedding dinner," and she waved one hand towards the tables along the back wall, already loaded with food from many, many kitchens, "and I'm not selling it, but still... I'll never spend much time here again."

"I'm glad you're not selling the cantina," Don Alejandro said thoughtfully. "It doesn't feel right."

Victoria shook her head. "I did get a good offer, but I couldn't accept it. It _isn't_ right to let it go. Papa poured his _life_ into this place after Mama died."

"And so have you."

She gave a small laugh. "And now I'll be pouring it into something else," she said to him slyly over her shoulder. Then, a decision: "One more time," was her cryptic remark.

Don Alejandro watched her walk around the bar, take down a clean shot glass, and fill it with the cantina's best whiskey. He was puzzled for a moment, then realized what she was up to. She placed the glass on the middle shelf behind the bar, then, carefully lifting her skirt, hooked a foot around the low step stool and pulled it over. Taking hold of the edge of the same shelf, she stepped onto the stool, then reached up to the top shelf and picked up a half-full shot glass sitting there, leaned over to pour the contents down the sink, then set that glass aside. She picked up the soft cloth lying there and, stretching high, keeping hold of the shelf with one hand for stability all the while, she dusted off two statues sitting on that top shelf: a smiling, blue-clad image of the Virgin Mary, and an earthy, sitting female figure made of unpainted clay. Figures and shelf dusted, she dropped the cloth, then dipped her index finger into the fresh whiskey, and wiped a drop onto the lips of the clay figurine. "A drink for you," she whispered, then picked up the glass and lifted it in a quick salute. "And one for me," then took a tiny sip before placing the glass on the shelf in front of the clay woman. "Watch over this place, Old One. Help everyone who enters feel at peace." Then she turned to the Virgin, kissed her fingertips and touched them to the three old pesos on the shelf before the statue (the first three ever earned by the cantina), then whispered a quick Hail Mary and crossed herself, before looking down and carefully stepping down off the stool.

"I can't count how many times I watched Paulo do that same ritual, every morning before he opened," commented Don Alejandro as she walked back around to him. "Did you teach it to Tonio?" he asked, referring to the man she had hired to manage the cantina for her, Jaime having declined, as he felt unequal to the task and realized he'd rather work with horses, after all.

"Of course," she replied. "Whether he actually keeps it up is another question." She turned and followed his gaze to the shelf. "Some might call it blasphemy, but I agree with Papa. It doesn't do to ignore the old gods, and Hutash was here long before we Spanish came."

"All gods are one god," Don Alejandro said firmly, "wearing different faces. And as long as no one is getting hurt, and we are all kind to another, no act of worship is wrong. Especially to an earth goddess such as Hutash."

"You sound just like Papa," Victoria teased him.

"Well, he did learn it from me," he replied, and her eyes grew round with mock astonishment.

"That's funny. He always said _you_ learned it from _him._"

Don Alejandro turned to her, taking a breath to protest – and then let it out, laughing. "After all these years, who knows?" As he glanced back, his eyes fell on something he had laid on the bar earlier. "Ah! I almost forgot! These are for you, from Diego." And so saying, he picked up the bouquet of wildflowers and handed it to her.

"Romania!" she smiled, her eyes full of love and remembrance. "My favorite." Holding the flowers to her face, she took a slow, deep, appreciative sniff of their fragrance, then smiled again at her soon-to-be-official father-in-law.

He stepped back and gallantly offered his arm. "Ready?"

"Yes," she replied simply, taking his arm, and they turned to the door and the future.

* * *

Across the plaza, Diego was already inside the church in his best iron-grey suit, a sprig of romania in his buttonhole. At the moment, however, he was kneeling before the small side altar to the Virgin Mary, praying. When Merida came in and announced the bride's imminent arrival, he crossed himself and stood, then took a straw and lit a candle. Jaime, standing nearby, was startled to see a trace of tears on the groom's face. "Diego?" he asked quietly, puzzled.

Diego gave him a small, bittersweet smile. "The same prayer as always, mi amigo."

Jaime glanced at the candle, then suddenly realized. "Felipe," he supplied with surety. "Watch over him and bring him home."

Diego nodded, looking up at the statue's lovely face. "Or at least... someday, let me discover what happened. It's not knowing that's the hardest. I miss him so much." Then he took a deep breath and shook off his pensive mood, turning and smiling at Jaime, then walking with him to the front altar. "But I am very glad you are here, amigo – and _not_ as a substitute. Thank you for standing with me."

"It is my honor, amigo."

At that moment, Merida, watching out the door, clapped her hands to bring everyone to their feet – the bride was approaching. Merida walked to the front of the church to stand opposite the gentlemen, but nobody was watching, as Don Alejandro had stepped through the door with Victoria on his arm.

Diego stood nearly gaping wide-eyed at his bride, all thoughts fled into the sunshine. How could it be that this transcendentally beautiful woman had agreed to marry him? Indeed, had already done so, in secret, months before?

They stopped beside him before the altar and Father Patricio, and Don Alejandro kissed Victoria's temple before stepping back a pace. She handed her flowers to Merida, then turned to take both of Diego's waiting hands in hers.

All he could do was stare, only dimly aware of Father Patricio beginning a prayer. "You're here," he whispered, so softly that only she could hear. "You're here."

Victoria smiled at him, knowledge of what he meant shining in her eyes. "So are you," she whispered back. And so it was.

A moment later, Father Patricio read the banns the final time, and asked the ritual question, if anyone knew why "these two should not be joined in holy matrimony." Jaime, at Diego's shoulder, nearly startled the groom to death by taking a sudden, deep, noisy breath – and letting out a patently fake sneeze! "Excuse me," he said in a tiny, strangled voice, trying not to guffaw.

Father Patricio was the first to lose it, then Don Alejandro, then Victoria's laugh pealed out above the rest. The only one in the church not laughing was Diego. "Excuse me a moment," he told Victoria, then dropped her hands, turned around, put his hands around Jaime's neck, and pretended to throttle him, shaking him back and forth several times before he was satisfied. Then he turned back and solemnly took Victoria's hands again.

It was several minutes before Father Patricio was able to proceed with the vows.

* * *

Back at the cantina after the ceremony and the mass that followed, Diego and Victoria, flanked by their attendants, greeted all their well-wishers from all walks of life in the community with joy, enjoying to the hilt their ability at long last to show their mutual love in public. More than one disappointed suitor lifted his glass in ironic salute to the happy couple.

"I thought you were going to have a heart attack when Jaime sneezed," Don Alejandro told Diego, unable to stop laughing about it.

"I nearly did," Diego admitted ruefully, giving his best man an exasperated side-eye. Jaime was unrepentant, smiling blandly at Diego over his beer.

The party was in full swing when Alcalde Ignacio de Soto walked quietly in, unable to resist the temptation. He hadn't been invited, but he didn't care. He walked up to Diego, standing by the bar now with Victoria and his father, and gave a wicked chuckle. "I knew you would come out of hiding sooner or later, de la Vega. And now I'll have you."

"What in the world are you talking about?" Diego asked calmly, although he had a sinking feeling he knew.

He was right. De Soto glanced at Victoria, then back. "I don't believe for one moment that she would _ever_ have married _anyone_ other than Zorro. You both played your parts well, this past year, but it's out now. She as good as painted a Z on your back today. And now it's my target. Enjoy your wedded life, Don Diego... while it lasts." And with a final tip of his head to the newlyweds, de Soto turned on his heel and headed back outside, chuckling.

Don Alejandro turned anxiety-filled eyes on his son. "Diego..." he murmured, too soft for anyone nearby to hear.

"Stop," Diego replied as softly. He glanced at both of them. "We've already been over this a hundred times. There is _nothing_ for him to find, and never will be. He's just blowing smoke." He had gone over the secret chamber with a fine-toothed comb, removing and destroying every snippet of evidence of Zorro's existence there, including the wooden stall for Toronado, on the nearly impossible chance that de Soto might some day find the tunnel. The only item left unburned was Zorro's filigreed silver sword, which he had buried deep one night under a tree half a mile from the hacienda. "He can't do anything."

And a short time later, as the newlyweds climbed into the carriage for the ride to their rented honeymoon cottage by the seashore, Diego felt that at long last, the difficult and painful past was truly behind him. Nothing could ruin his and Victoria's life together now. He looked at his lovely, brave, intelligent wife and smiled, then flicked the reins.


	10. Chapter 10 - Part Two

**PART TWO: SPANISH MORNING**

**TEN**

It was a fine spring morning, more than a year and a half after their church wedding, and Diego was riding out to meet Jaime at the first of the large paddocks they had built together for the new horse-breeding operation. On reaching it, he dismounted and leaned against the gate, admiring Fuego as he pranced about. The only offspring of Toronado's that he knew about, the colt was the result from the one time Toronado had slipped away to cover one of Don Alejandro's chestnut mares. Now three years old, the young stallion resembled his sire in nearly every way but one: instead of solid black, Fuego was a handsome dark bay. And he was now the star sire and centerpiece of the young horse farm.

Jaime rode up from his little house on the far side of the paddocks a few minutes later and joined his boss at the gate. After exchanging greetings, Jaime peered closely at Diego's face. "You're very happy this morning," he observed.

"Yes, I am," Diego said softly, feeling about to burst inside. He turned to face Jaime, drawing it out, savoring the moment and the joy that produced it. "Victoria just told me – she's going to have a child."

Jaime's reaction was all he could have hoped for, as happy and enthusiastic as Don Alejandro had been earlier when _he_ had heard the news. "It took you long enough," he commented slyly.

"It was not for want of trying," Diego returned. "But we were beginning to worry something was wrong." After the months of anxiety that she _would_ fall pregnant during their secret marriage, he had almost begun to think they had somehow jinxed themselves. This morning's news had laid that at last to rest. "Let's get going," he added. They mounted up again and slowly rode through each of the paddocks, doing their morning rounds of checking on each horse's condition.

In the last large field, Jaime pulled up and pointed to the far side. "Diego... what horse is that?"

"Not one of ours," Diego replied. "Let's go see." The strange mare was standing by herself in a corner, aloof from the few others in the paddock, munching on some grass. She had no rope or halter on. As the two men rode closer, she raised her head and looked them over, stepping skittishly sideways until Jaime swerved that way to cut her off, then stood still and waited patiently.

"That's Don Fernando's brand," Diego said. "One of his prized Andalusians. What is she doing way out here?" Don Fernando's rancho was on the far, western side of the pueblo, near the sea.

"And how did she get into the paddock?" Jaime returned. "This is very strange. And I don't like strange things," he finished. Diego nodded agreement.

Shaking out a loop in the rope hanging from his saddle horn, Diego quickly flipped it over the mare's head and pulled it snug. The mare shied slightly, but then seemed to settle right down again, shaking her head as if saying, _All right, what now?_ "I have a very bad feeling about this, amigo. Let's get her back home quickly where she belongs," Diego commented.

But it was already too late. As they turned their horses, Jaime pointed into the distance. "Uh-oh." A large cloud of dust heralded the arrival of a troop of lancers from the garrison, Alcalde de Soto at their head, Don Fernando's head hostler at his side.

"There she is!" the hostler shouted, pointing to the mare. "I told you!" Diego couldn't help but notice that he glanced at the Alcalde before he spoke.

De Soto grinned at the two men maliciously. "Stealing horses now, de la Vega? Are you that desperate to stock your pathetic horse farm?"

"Don't be ridiculous, de Soto. We just found her here, this morning. I have no idea how she got here!" Even as he spoke, however, Diego was aware how pathetic an excuse it sounded. If he were anyone else, someone whose integrity was open to question...

And obviously, de Soto's opinion of his integrity was entirely negative. "We've caught the both of you, red-handed, with a stolen horse. Lancers, arrest them!" Before Diego or Jaime could protest their innocence further, they were surrounded by soldiers pointing rifles at them. Glancing quickly at Jaime, Diego shook his head – he wasn't going to argue with a dozen loaded guns. The hostler walked up and took the mare's rope from Diego's hand and pulled her away, then two of the lancers got down, pulled the reins out of their hands and handed them to other soldiers, and then tied their hands together with the short rawhide ropes they carried for the purpose, attaching the ends to their own saddle horns, leaving them no slack at all. Diego looked around wildly but none of their own men were in sight. He had no chance to send word to Father or Victoria at the hacienda. He also took note that neither of the two lancers tying their hands looked either him or Jaime, their former sergeant, in the face.

_All right,_ he thought, trying to stay calm. _This is completely flimsy – an obvious setup. It won't stand up to scrutiny at a trial. Five minutes with that hostler on a witness stand and I'll have the truth._ He was trying desperately to keep thoughts of how easily Zorro would have smashed this silly exercise and ridden away laughing from his mind.

But he had reckoned without de Soto's hatred of him, and his willingness to do anything to take him down, which had only intensified a hundredfold through the preceding months, as he failed again and again to entrap Diego as the now-disappeared Zorro. The Alcalde's voice rang out across the field. "Diego de la Vega, Jaime Mendoza, you are hereby found guilty of horse theft and sentenced to five years service in the Army of New Spain – if you last that long!" As the two men gaped at him, astonished at this lightning-fast drumhead mock "trial", de Soto raised one hand and beckoned to the five men hanging back, unnoticed until then. As they rode forward to claim their victims, Diego's heart dove to his feet. The leader was none other than the very press gang captain he and Felipe had foiled the night before the earthquake, nearly three years before.

Far too late now, Diego tried desperately to tear his wrists out of the rawhide bindings, but they were too well and too tightly tied – the lancers knew their job there at any rate. He was suddenly terrified, as he had never felt before. His mouth was moving, too, a mile a minute, though he was only half paying attention to the words, as he protested the mock trial, trying to get the lancers to help against this travesty of justice. But there was no help forthcoming from them, they were too cowed by their commander.

And then two of the press gang were on either side of him, another two surrounding Jaime, and all four were aiming their deadly pistols point blank at the prisoners' heads. _"Shut up!"_ roared their captain, _"before I knock you both unconscious and leave your balls behind! You don't need them to march and fire!"_ As de Soto laughed in the sudden silence, the captain had two of his men pull out bandanas and tie them around Diego's and Jaime's mouths, gagging them. The friends shared a frantic look, but there was nothing they could do.

They separated at the paddock gate, de Soto riding back towards the pueblo with the lancers, while the press gang took their new prisoners to their camp to the north. One man led each prisoner's horse, while his partner hung back a pace, keeping them covered with their lethal pistols. The captain rode in front, whistling.

All the way there, Diego was trying frantically to _think_, to come up with a way out. He couldn't banish de Soto's parting shot from his mind, the casual "idea" of visiting Diego's "soon-to-be widow". The man had tried to court her during the year after the earthquake, after all. But then, he half-hoped de Soto would in fact call on the hacienda, and that day – Diego couldn't think of any other way to get word of his predicament to his family. Although he couldn't come up with any way _they_ could help, either – but they were both clever and brave individuals. They'd think of something.

All such thoughts were banished when they reached the camp. Three other "recruits" – all strangers to Diego – were already there, gagged, chained securely to each other and to spikes set into the ground on one side of the fire. Their eyes were dead and helpless as they watched the two new prisoners without interest. Diego and Jaime were untied from their horses one at a time and allowed to dismount while the two gunmen kept their pistols tightly on their heads and the other two grabbed their arms to prevent them struggling – although they both did try. Then their hands were spread and retied just as tightly to the two right wheels of the press gang's wagon. The reason for this odd maneuver became clear a moment later, when the gang's captain pulled a branding iron out of the burning fire, its business end, a large letter C, glowing red. They had been prepared in advance.

Diego screamed through the gag as the captain approached, struggling to escape his bonds once more. But the four other men once more grabbed his arms and sat on his legs to hold him still.

The captain jammed the brand onto the back of Diego's right hand, and the world went red and then black.


	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

A bucketful of cold water jolted Diego to consciousness and into a nightmare. The searing pain from the brand on his hand screamed up his arm and nearly made him cry out again – and he realized he was no longer gagged. Then the shouts and kicks from his captors penetrated and he opened his eyes to stare wildly around, trying to get his bearings.

He had been untied from the wagon wheel, but his wrists and ankles were now shackled together, each with about a foot of heavy chain running between wide, thick iron cuffs, and another four feet of chain from feet to hands – just enough, he realized, that he could stand and walk, albeit with very short steps. And that's exactly what he was being shouted at to do now, as they moved him into the wagon. The other three men who had preceded them into the camp were lined up with their backs along one side of the wagon, while Jaime faced them on the other side. The press gang prodded Diego up to take the place next to Jaime.

There was a line down the center of the wagon of what looked like huge iron fishhooks sticking up through holes in the bed. The prisoners were instructed to place the longer length of chain under the hook in front of them, and then one of the captors turned a crank at the back of the wagon, pulling all the hooks down and closing the loops. It was an ingenious method of securing them, thought Diego, a split second before the reality hit that _he_ was one of the secured.

Suddenly terrified, he yanked as hard as he could on the chain, and worked his wrists and even ankles in their shackles, but each limb was securely locked in. He was effectively immobilized, with no hope of getting lose short of lifting a key to the locks, or something to pick them with. He knew his pockets were empty of anything that might help.

Looking forward, Diego watched the press gang captain climb onto the seat and pick up the reins to the two draft horses pulling the wagon, while one of his men sat beside him holding a shotgun and turning occasionally to keep an eye on the prisoners. Their two riding horses were tethered behind the wagon, while the other three rode theirs, ranging around the sides, guns at the ready.

"I'm sorry, Diego," Jaime said, his voice so low and ragged Diego could barely hear him. The former soldier hadn't yet lifted his head to meet his friend's eyes.

"Why?" Diego stared at his friend. "This wasn't your fault, none of it."

"I should have realized it was a trap, and – "

"Jaime, we both knew it was a trap, the moment we saw the mare. But we didn't have time to do anything. De Soto was there to make sure the trap closed, just as soon as we had put the rope on the mare, and had these... slavers with him." He had decided on an instant to drop the more pleasant 'press gang' and call them what he really thought they were: slavers. "He had everything timed perfectly. He must have been watching us. There was _nothing_ we could do." He was realizing it even as he spoke.

But the conversation had had the effect of calming him down from his frenzy – slightly – and concentrate on more practical matters. "But we'll get out of it. I swear we will. I'll figure a way to get loose – and I won't leave you behind, either. We'll both be back home before anyone realizes."

"And do what?" Jaime asked, his voice hard and angry, making Diego turn to stare. He had never seen his cheerful friend act this way, filled with harsh, ragged despair. "With these brands on our hands? We will be shot on sight, by _anyone_ who sees them, at home or anywhere else, as _deserters_." Jaime shook his head. "We are _convicts_, mi amigo, that's what the C stands for. Convict soldiers. We belong to the Army now, and will, until the war is over and we are discharged, with proper papers." He didn't bother adding what Diego already knew, that half of all convicts didn't last the first year, and nearly none made it through their entire sentence in the army.

"We can hide the brands, wear gloves," Diego began in desperation, but Jaime shook his head again.

"That might work somewhere else – for a while – but not at home. De Soto will make sure that _everyone_ knows what has happened to us. We cannot go home, amigo, even if we manage somehow to escape. Not without those papers."

Diego had never in his life been so close to weeping in fury and despair. He sat back against the wagon's side as well as he could, bending his knees to give enough slack to the chain; trying to hold it in, trying to wrap his mind around his terrifying fate, his helplessness against it. He knew without arguing how right Jaime was. They were trapped.

From the position of the sun, it was nearly noon, and they were traveling south along the road into Mexico. Just as it dawned that they weren't too far from his own rancho again, Jaime nudged him with a shoulder. "Diego... look." He motioned with a chin to the road ahead of them.

"No," Diego whispered. Standing there in the middle of the road were Father and Victoria, along with a handful of their ranch hands, long guns in their hands. His beautiful wife had her hands clapped over her mouth, her eyes red from weeping, while Don Alejandro had the fiercest, most determined look Diego had ever seen on his face.

The captain brought the wagon to a halt, yelling out, "What do you want?"

Don Alejandro drew himself up proudly and introduced himself. "Your wagon is carrying my son and my foreman. They were falsely accused and convicted without a proper trial. This is absolutely illegal. Let them go!" Diego fleetingly blessed de Soto for apparently carrying through on his threat to visit the hacienda; he had let the family know what had happened.

But the captain was not impressed. He shrugged. "I received the convicts from the duly-appointed alcalde. They are bound for the army – it's my job to get them there. If you have issues with their arrest or trial, take it up with the alcalde, not me." They went back and forth a few more times, to no avail: the captain could not have cared less.

"Surely we can come to some kind of agreement," Don Alejandro changed tactics. When pressed, he smiled. "A man such as you must have many expenses, that cannot all be met by whatever paltry fee you receive from the army for taking these men all that distance. Let me help you with that." A small part of Diego was shocked at his father offering a bribe, for the first time he could remember.

But it was also fruitless; the captain wasn't biting. "And if I start letting men go, for this sum or that, word will get around, and soon I'll have _no_ job with the army. No."

"Just my luck," Jaime muttered in Diego's ear. "The only honest official in New Spain."

While he was talking, Don Alejandro had walked forward, and now was standing next to one of the draft horse's flanks. Suddenly Victoria was there beside him, beseeching the captain. "Please!" she said in a cracked whisper. "He is my husband! I am having his child! _Please_ don't take him!"

But the captain had had enough. "Then you should have chosen a better husband, Señora, and not a common horse thief. All these men already legally belong to the Army of New Spain, and that's where I'm taking them. The only agreement you'll get is that I won't shoot you down, if you and your rabble move out of the road, _now!"_ Suddenly, all five slavers had their guns pointing at the pair. Diego saw Father's face harden for an instant, then remember that Victoria was standing beside him, in harm's way. He would not put her life in danger, no matter what he himself might do. Giving a low command to the rancheros to put their guns down, Don Alejandro put an arm around Victoria's shoulders and guided her to one side.

But he was not finished quite yet. "May I at least say goodbye to my son?" he asked, his voice cracking. "May his wife say goodbye to her husband?"

"You can wave as he rides past, old man. _Yah!" _The slaver captain gave the reins a tremendous shake, startling the horses into an instant trot.

Don Alejandro and Victoria found Diego's eyes in an instant. "Diego!" his father called, fierce and determined. "This is not over! I will do whatever it takes to stop this and bring you home!"

"_Stay back!"_ the slaver captain warned again as it looked like they might try to step back onto the road, but they stood still.

Choking back his anger and fear, Diego managed a fierce promise: "I _will_ come home! I _will..."_

"I'll be here," Victoria promised instantly, and repeated it soundlessly as he read her lips, "We'll be here." Her hands had dropped to protect her belly and the precious new cargo within.

All Don Alejandro could do was nod, his arm still around Victoria's shoulders to signal he would protect her, and wait with her for his son's return. Suddenly his voice rang out, _"Jaime!" _Startled, Mendoza raised his head to look at Don Alejandro. "You too!" Father went on. "This is your home, we are your family. We will be here for you!"

Amazed and deeply touched, Jaime managed to nod, his lips twitching in what tried and failed to become a smile.

His face twisted in fierce determination, Diego watched them until the wagon at last rounded a bend and took them out of sight, ignoring the snickers from the guards. Then he slumped back down, helpless against a river of terror and despair cascading through him.


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE**

Not even terror lasts forever, and gradually Diego felt himself calm down – slightly – enough to try, after a few hours, to begin to think and plan. "Jaime," he whispered, barely heard over the creaking, rattling wagon; not wanting to attract the attention of the guards, or even the other prisoners.

"Yes?" Jaime matched his tone. Diego could tell his friend was barely keeping his own head above bleak, fatalistic despair. Jaime wasn't in the best of shape these days, even if he had lost quite a lot of weight with his illness the year before. It wasn't enough, not for what they were facing.

"Help me," Diego begged him quietly. "Please. You've been through this before, or something like it, when you joined the army. You know what to expect – if we don't manage to escape before we reach – wherever it is we're going. I don't have any idea. I'll never make it through this without you."

"I won't make it through at all," came the glum reply.

"Yes, you will," Diego told him firmly, jaw set. "I'll help you, you help me. We'll make it through together. We _will_. We _must_. We'll make it through the war, finish our sentences, and make it back home, _together._ I swear before God, Jaime. But only if we help each other." He stared hard into Jaime's eyes, until at last something deep within seemed to clear. Jaime sat up a tiny bit straighter, and nodded, a tiny little movement yet full of new determination – and maybe just a little bit of hope, or maybe only desperation. Diego nodded back. They made no promises aloud, but each knew they were bound now to each other.

"So, tell me..." Diego began. "Tell me what to do, what to expect."

Jaime thought for several minutes, remembering his own training as a raw recruit years before, and translating it mentally ten times worse for convicts, sifting through all the bits of advice he had received over the years, and passed on in turn. "Never look anyone in the eyes," he began. "Always stare straight ahead. 'Yes, sir.' 'No, sir.' That is _all_ you _ever_ say. No matter what anyone of any rank says to you. 'Yes, sir.' 'No, sir.' "

Diego nodded, sitting up as straight as he could and staring across the wagon. No time like the present to begin practicing.

"Back straight," Jaime saw and approved. "Shoulders back. Head high. Not too high – you don't want to come off arrogant." He paused. "We are going into hell, amigo. They will try to break us. They will work us to death if they can." He took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose even more weight. Well, I can afford it," he added, trying to regain a tiny bit of humor, but it fell flat.

"Take care of your feet," he continued, surprising Diego. "Wash them every day, and let them dry in the air completely, or they will rot inside your boots. Dry your boots out, too, as best you can. If we are in a desert, you can fill them with sand each night to dry them. That also keeps out the scorpions." Diego looked askance at this; Jaime merely snorted and went on. "Get a change of socks, more if you can, and wash them every time you wear them. Socks will dry in the top of your pack while you're wearing another pair. You can wear two pairs if you need to." Diego nodded again, absorbing it.

"Get used to eating things you do not think are edible. I've known men to survive on leaves and dirt. I did it myself for three days, once." Diego stared again, but Jaime ignored it. "The food they give you, especially the hardtack, will be rotten, full of maggots. Do not pick them out, eat them. They are food – they will help you survive." Diego shuddered.

"Make the water in your canteen last as long as you can. Do not guzzle it quickly, you never know when you'll get to refill it. But drink as much as you can whenever you have a chance – at streams, wells, whatever. Even if the water is cloudy, as long as it doesn't smell, drink. You are taking chances, but you cannot be picky. You need water."

"Take care of your rifle. Clean it out every day, or it will explode in your hands one day." Jaime actually chuckled. "Best thing to clean burned gunpowder out of a gun barrel is piss. Take a leak in it every evening to wash out the gunpowder residue."

The man chained directly across from Jaime, silent until that moment, spoke up. "How do you know all these things, Señor?" Apparently he'd been listening to Jaime's advice – they all had, from the looks on their faces.

"Because I was in the Army before – as a volunteer, that time." Jaime glanced forward, seeing the guard beside the captain had turned around to listen as well. "And I don't care if I get beaten for this," he said more loudly, directly to guard, with the most bitterly defiant tone Diego had ever heard from his ever-cheerful friend. "I don't care that _everyone_ says it, and swears it is true. This _is_ true: we are _innocent, _Don Diego and I. We were framed, because the Alcalde wanted to be rid of us." He stared at the guard. "You know it is true – you saw that ridiculous excuse for a trial."

"Doesn't matter, Chubby." Jaime realized with a start that it was the captain speaking, not the guard. "You're mine now. And the army's. Now stop whining and shut up."

Jaime shut up, knowing that he'd made his point, as far as he would ever be allowed to. They rode in silence for several long minutes. Diego was dealing the largest bomb of all that just went off inside his soul at Jaime's mention of cleaning guns, as he truly grasped for the first time what he was facing. War. Battles. Shooting and killing soldiers on the other side, facing him across a battlefield. He started shaking.

"I can't do it, Jaime. I can't kill." His voice was lowered to the slightest whisper, so no one could overhear them at all.

"You must," Jaime said inexorably, just as low. "You have no choice. It is that or be killed yourself, or shot for cowardice."

Diego turned to face his friend. "But it goes against _everything_ I believe in. Every moral precept I've ever been taught."

"Do you believe in those morals enough to die for them? Become a martyr?"

Diego couldn't answer. He simply didn't know.

"You are a convict soldier, Diego. It is your duty to obey. Nothing more."

"_Duty?"_ Diego's voice was wracked with irony. "I know what duty is. And honor. I'm a Spanish caballero. A don. And an educated man. I know history, philosophy, science... And honor and duty. Those things do not include fighting battles, shooting and killing other men whose only transgressions are trying to protect their homes and families."

Jaime looked at him steadily, with not a little pity. "Maybe not for a caballero. But you are not a caballero any more. You are a convicted criminal, with a brand on your hand. And now it is your duty to obey. Nothing more."

"Duty?" Diego said again. He couldn't let it go. "You think it is my duty – _your_ duty – to complete this outrageous sentence, for a crime we did not commit? After that – you can't even call it a 'trial'!"

"It was the same kind of trail I have seen him conduct many times, when a criminal was caught red-handed away from the pueblo."

"That doesn't make it right – then or now."

"No. It just is." Jaime shrugged. "I'm not a caballero. I'm just a simple soldier. All I know of duty is... I have always felt it was my duty to just do the best I could, to act the most honorable way I could, in whatever loco circumstances I found myself in." He heaved a long sigh. "Now? … It seems I am in the Army again."

"Does that mean you wouldn't try to get away, if the opportunity came?"

Jaime thought for a long time, then sighed. "I don't know. I want to go home, eventually. Back to Los Angeles. But without that paper... It might be a very short life." He turned it back on Diego. "What about you?"

Diego echoed his friend's sigh of a moment before. "I'm a third-generation Californio. My grandfather was the first landowner in the area to receive his grant, directly from the crown. He and my father built much of the pueblo with their own hands, their own money." He paused. "How can I go back if I can't even show my face in public?" He shook his head. "But going somewhere else, starting over, hiding who I was... that's even more impossible."

"So you are trapped, too." Diego looked away, unwilling to admit what must be the truth.

Jaime let him alone for several long minutes, to try to absorb his new status. He knew adjusting to it would take a very long time. Then, even more softly, he began whispering again, barely moving his mouth. Diego had to strain to hear. "There are ways to lessen the chances of your bullet killing anyone. Aim just a little bit high, or a little bit low, or a little bit to one side. Not enough so that your gun barrel is obviously out of line to anyone watching – and they are _always_ watching. Just enough that the bullet goes astray." He took a breath. "These rifles never shoot completely straight. Learn which way yours tends to go in practice, if you can, and use it to aim away." He paused, thinking. "Or sometimes prime your rifle without a bullet. You can't do that very often – maybe one shot in five, or even less – or you will be caught with too many bullets left in your pouch." He glanced at Diego's profile. "You cannot prevent all deaths, but every one you can is a man who lives, whose life you did not take."

"Did you do these things?" Diego asked him, as quietly.

Jaime didn't answer for a minute. Then, "sometimes," he admitted. "It is easier, more straightforward, when you are attacked. But when it is your side that is attacking..." He shrugged. "The answers are not so clear." He paused. "When we are lined up for battle, Diego... _never... ever... _look beyond the end of your gun barrel. Focus only on it. Never beyond. Do not look at the other side, ever." He glanced at his friend again. "If nothing else... when there are a hundred other men on either side of you, all shooting, only God could tell whose bullet did what." He let that sink in. "That's why they use five men – or more – for firing squads. So none of them ever knows if it was _his_ bullet that killed the prisoner."

They rode in silence for a while, then Jaime had a question. "Have you never killed anyone, Diego?"

Diego slowly nodded. "Twice. I never meant to, but I had no choice in the moment."

"Or they would have killed you." It was a guess, but Diego nodded again to confirm it. "Keep that in mind, amigo. Those men on the other side, they are shooting at you, and will kill you if they get a chance."

Diego shuddered. "That's two armies facing each other. It's different, when you're face to face with one man."

"Even Zorro could not hide from that," Jaime guessed shrewdly, watching for Diego's reaction.

"No," Diego whispered, then realized what he'd just said. He turned sharply to stare at Jaime, who was now grinning slightly. "How did you know that?"

"I didn't – until just now," Jaime admitted, his grin growing at Diego's astonishment – turning quickly to chagrin.

Diego heaved an exasperated sigh. "How did you guess, then?"

"I _hate_ to admit this, but I agreed with de Soto on just one thing, ever. I do not believe that Victoria would ever have married anyone but Zorro, either. She did give you away – she was so full of joy at your wedding. But you were very clever, both of you. I don't believe anyone else suspected the truth."

"Thanks," Diego said sarcastically. "That makes me feel _so_ much better." He glanced sideways again. "You're more clever than you let on."

Jaime gave him a weak grin. "You'll tell me how you did it all, some day? I would like to hear." Diego shrugged and nodded. _Why not?_

They rode in silence for a time, thinking, then Jaime began again. "One more thing, amigo. And I think it will be the hardest thing for you to do. But you must."

_Harder than learning to kill?_ Diego thought, wondering what that could possibly be.

Jaime didn't leave him in suspense. "Try not to think. Ever. Don't think about how stupid this is, or how wrong. Don't try to think about easier ways to do things. And for god's sake, don't think about home, or family. Just don't think. Just do, whatever they tell you. _Exactly_ what they tell you. No more, no less. Soldiers are known to be stupid. Sometimes, they have to be, to survive."

They turned to look at each other, acknowledging without words the impossibility of what Jaime just suggested.

"But do not ever forget who you are. Wrap it up and hide it somewhere deep inside. Don't let it show, or they will steal it, or break it. But keep it close, and never forget." Jaime paused again, remembering. "The men who come back from war broken inside... they are the ones who forgot who they were, who lost their sense of themselves. So do not forget."

"Aren't those two contradictory?" Diego asked mildly. "Don't think, but remember who I am?"

He felt Jaime turn his head to look at him, and glanced to see his friend smile sardonically. "Welcome to the army, amigo."


	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN**

Jaime was absolutely right: the army training camp they at last reached after three weeks of riding chained in the rattling wagon was nine kinds of sheer hell. The chains he had never managed to escape were removed on arrival, but the camp itself was heavily guarded; chances of escape from its confines were slim, especially for two men. Although he kept his eyes open, the opportunity never came. The two of them managed to stay together, finally being recognized as official partners, and given a two-man tent to share in the field. Diego grabbed it without a word and attached it to his own pack, saving his friend those few pounds.

There was one saving grace in this madness, Diego realized after a time. The officers running the camp weren't actively trying to kill them. The goal was to somehow turn the men who came through it into soldiers, and marched off to be integrated into the Army of New Spain – even if only as cannon fodder. Still, they had to be able to march, perform standard field maneuvers, understand and react correctly to all of the usual orders, and load and fire the rifles they were issued on the second day as a unit.

And to learn all that, they had to practice.

Endlessly.

Diego knew intellectually that part of the process was tearing new men down psychologically in order to build them back up into a single mindless unit that would work and fight together. Knowing that and living through it are two different things, however. He took the first blow within five minutes of arrival, as all the men who had arrived that day – convicts, conscripts, and volunteers alike – were lined up to begin the process.

Diego was doing his best to follow Jaime's advice, standing straight, staring blindly ahead, as the drill sergeant worked down the line, one by one, sizing them up. He stopped before Diego and asked his name.

"De la Vega, Sir!" Diego replied crisply. The man hadn't wanted to hear anyone else's first name.

"_De_ _la_ Vega!" the sergeant mocked. "No it isn't! That's a name for a hidalgo, a caballero. You are nothing but a convicted criminal, a horse thief! Your name is simply Vega! Got that?"

"Yes, sir!" Inside, he was seething, but he didn't let it show.

"What's your name, convict?"

"Vega, sir!"

"Again!"

"Vega, sir!"

"_Louder!"_

"_Vega, sir!"_ Diego shouted.

Finally the sergeant was satisfied, and stepped on to deal with Jaime. He knew him at once for a former soldier, and grilled him a bit about it, ending it on a sneering promise that things would be very different for him this time.

They undoubtedly were. Jaime was twenty years older and more than fifty pounds heavier than he had been the first time he was a recruit. Diego could tell Jaime was using everything he had to keep up on the long forced marches and other physical drills – but he did manage to keep up, not showing his exhaustion until they were allowed to collapse in their tent each night. Diego did whatever small things he could for Jaime then, to let him rest. Just as he'd predicted, Jaime was several pounds lighter by the end of their training camp – but he was also stronger, and less exhausted each night. He would survive.

They were given uniforms the first day; two pairs of pants and one overcoat of lightweight scratchy wool in dark blue, and two button-up shirts of lighter blue cotton cotton to wear underneath. Diego caught Jaime looking sourly at the pants and asked him why. "You see that wide red stripe along the outer seam? That marks us as convicts, mi amigo. Now _everyone_ will know what we are, instantly." Diego hadn't noticed before, but when he looked around with new eyes, he could see the various markers of rank and status. Most of the new "recruits" wore the plain blue pants of volunteers or the narrow white stripes of conscripts. Those two groups didn't mix together much, but all of them stayed away from the convicts like themselves.

Diego's biggest struggle was just as Jaime had predicted: trying not to think. He finally remembered his philosophy professor at the university, Doctor Valentino. Diego had only taken a single year of philosophy, but after that, they had remained friends, and shared a number of interesting conversations. El Viejo, as he was also known for his very advanced years, had traveled the world, learning philosophy in many different parts of it. He had tried to teach Diego some of the Chinese Buddhist practices he had learned – he'd called it meditation. Diego bent all his thought to remembering them, and after a while it fell into place. He taught himself to divide his mind, one small part of it in the present to listen for commands and obey them, but most of his concentration building one of three memories, exact in every detail. The first was from childhood: lying in a meadow, the sun warming him pleasantly, eyes closed, the scents of earth and growing things and wildflowers filling his nostrils, listening to the bees buzzing and the birdsong. The second was his favorite place in the world: the vast old library at his university in Salamanca. He saw the endless stacks of exciting rare books, smelled the dusty leather bindings, felt their embossed covers under his fingertips, enticing him to open them and learn the exotic knowledge contained within, watched the sunlight slanting down upon the tables. And the third was back in the cantina, holding his precious Victoria tightly in his arms, her forehead tucked into the curve of his neck, his cheek caressing her hair. He didn't try to add any movement or words to any of the pictures, learning early that would lead to one of two disasters: either he would miss a command and blow it in the here and now, or he would be catapulted out of the memory and into his tired, aching body. But by the end of camp, he could finish a ten-mile forced march automatically, his mind very far away for every step.

In a very real way, it saved his sanity.

He couldn't dissociate like that while doing loading and shooting drills, or close maneuvers, but if he concentrated on each action alone, blocking out the bigger picture, he got through them as well. What he never noticed was that many of the other recruits, especially the other convicts, had begun to watch him and follow his lead, seeing – even if he didn't – that his methods of mute, dogged obedience at least earned him less of the sergeants' caustic, screaming remarks and petty vengeances.

At last, their group were deemed sufficiently trained to meet the minimum standards of cannon fodder, and about sixty of them were marched off together, heading for the main army encampment some fifty-odd miles northeast, in the foothills of the thousand-mile-long Sierra Madre Oriental. There, they were divided into squads of six to ten, and integrated into several different active companies as replacements. Vega and Mendoza, still partnered, ended up in the 101st Veracruz Rifles, under the command of Colonel Ramon Gallegos.

And that's where they ran headlong into Corporal Pedrona.

Pedrona was a short, ugly little man with crooked teeth, barely over five feet tall, with the hypersensitive, overcompensating attitude to match. He took an instant dislike to the much-taller-than-average Diego; a reaction only compounded by Diego's status as a hidalgo, which he couldn't hide no matter how he tried. It showed in his posture, his speech – what little he said, anyway; his uncalloused hands, still softer than any peasant's after two years of rough work he'd been doing. Pedrona rode "Private Vega" from morning to night, trying to egg him into lashing out so he could be "properly" punished and taken down a few pegs. Diego's jaw clenched tighter and tighter, but he kept his temper with the Corporal – just.

He only lost it once the first few weeks, one evening when he and Jaime were walking back to their tent after dinner – the company was still in camp to rest and train the new men before heading out to the field. Rounding the corner of one of the many log buildings, the pair were suddenly confronted in the shadows by two of the old-timers, recruits from the old country, who made conscripts' – and especially convicts' – lives miserable. Each of them was wielding their belt knife, honed to wicked sharpness, pointing them steadily towards their newest victims.

"Hand over that watch, Vega," the one on the left snarled. "You don't need one out here." His buddy was making similar noises towards Jaime.

"Oh, leave us alone," Jaime sounded more cross and tired than anything.

"Shut up, old man," the buddy snapped. "You're useless."

Unfortunately for them, Diego had no intention of ever losing his grandfather's watch – given to him by Don Alejandro the day he'd left for University. Without even thinking about it, his left hand darted out and grabbed Snarly's wrist, pushing it aside to make room for his right fist which connected with Snarly's jaw a moment later. Snarly staggered back two paces and plowed into the wall beside him, knocking his head. Diego stepped up, still holding onto the knife wrist, and delivered another pair of punches to accentuate his disagreement. By then the knife had dropped into the dirt. Diego stepped back, added his right hand to the wrist hold, and turned, pulling Snarly around and then throwing him to the ground several feet away.

"No," he said calmly.

Snarly gaped up at the man towering over him and did the smart thing for once. He scrambled to his feet and ran, leaving both his knife and his buddy behind.

Diego turned then to see how many pieces Jaime was in – but it was just one. Jaime had Snarly's buddy up against the same log wall, grinding his left forearm into the man's windpipe, and holding the man's own knife an inch from his eyes. "I may be old, and out of shape," Jaime growled, "but I will _not_ be taken down by a useless punk like you. Leave... Us... Alone... Got it?"

Unable to breathe just then, the punk he was holding just nodded, his eyes bugging out. Jaime waited one more breath, then abruptly dropped his hands and stepped back, allowing the man to stagger away after his buddy.

"Remind me not to piss you off," Diego commented mildly. Jaime only snorted.

"I'm too old for this shit." He dropped the knife he'd taken off the would-be robber next to the one his buddy had left behind – they had their own in their belts. "It's been a long time since I've been in a knife fight," he said, as though talking of the weather. "Glad I still remembered some things."

Diego laughed and slapped his friend's back as they turned towards their tent.

Over the next couple of weeks a subtle change came over the company, as the other victims of the two would-be robbers noticed that the bullies stayed far away from Vega and Mendoza. And so the other convicts, and then more and more of the conscripts, began congregating a little closer to the pair from Los Angeles, while the veterans and bullies followed Corporal Pedrona's lead. Before long there was a split, just enough to be noticeable by Pedrona, even Mendoza – although Diego was seemingly oblivious to it. Pedrona went into overdrive, screaming orders and doling out hateful, filthy, menial tasks as punishments, but he couldn't seem to recapture his place as the feared and hated master of the company. The other corporals watched and snickered behind Pedrona's back, while their superior officers remained aloof and blind to what was going on.

All things end, and finally, three weeks after Diego's arrival at the main camp, their company received orders to move out and into the mountains, chasing after the rebel armies cobbled together by self-styled "Generals" Guerrero and Calderone, and dealing with the various groups of partisan fighters who had coalesced around dynamic leaders to harass the Empire's Army of New Spain. Many rumors and wild stories began to fly through the troops, as they always did: Mexico was independent; it had been retaken and leaders executed; various heads of state had been deposed or exiled; Napoleon himself was back from the dead and heading towards Mexico; and of course all the deeds and exploits of the various commanders in the field. Over time, wilder and wilder stories began to spread about one man in particular: the commander of a vicious partisan group who was known as El Halcón, the hawk.

_Don't go into his mountains, _they whispered. _It's a death sentence. No one fights El Halcón and survives. If you escape from one battle, he'll track you down and kill you. He'll even find you in the middle of another battle, and leave a feather to mark your body. _

Diego hardly listened to any of these rumors, concentrating on keeping his head and surviving. Jaime would snort derisively. "He's just a man. You're all jumping at shadows."

The soldier who had been speaking stared at him, unnerved. "You say that now. You wait. You wait until the day you hear it. The scream of a hawk – but the biggest, most monstrous hawk that ever lived, bigger than a horse. That's El Halcón. That's how he launches his attacks. You hear that scream... and you're a dead man." Jaime just snorted again.

Not long after that, the Veracruz Rifles met up with two other companies, and together they managed to bring General Guerrero to a battle – Diego's first. He had nearly managed to forget the inevitable end result of all that training, when suddenly he found himself in a long double line of soldiers, pointing his rifle at another such line a few hundred feet away.

Time slowed to a crawl. He heard himself taking ragged breaths, felt his heart pounding harder than it ever had. He watched the opposing commander gallop his horse from one end of his line to the other, seeming to take at least an hour. His hands were numb. He couldn't help but pick out the man directly opposite him, and fancied he could see the man's sweat under his armpits as he pointed his own gun back at Diego.

Jaime, standing on his left, noticed. _"Diego!"_ he whispered sharply out of the side of his mouth. _"Stop looking at them! Look only at your own gun, or at the ground!"_

Inhaling sharply, Diego managed to wrench his eyes away from the man and down onto his rifle's stock. Time snapped back into place just in time for him to hear the order to fire, and he managed to pull the trigger, even if he closed his eyes to do so. Then it was rifle down, reload – and he slipped into the routine he'd done so many times that it was automatic, muscle memory, and managed to keep his focus on the end of his own barrel from then on. It was easier after the first time, as the smoke from all the firing on both sides obscured the view.

He had been so focused all these weeks on what he was going to have to do that it had never really dawned on him that he could be injured or killed himself – not until the man on his right was suddenly blown back a pace, gasped and fell. Diego stared wide-eyed at the man – he couldn't even remember his name at that moment – until Corporal Pedrona appeared out of nowhere at his elbow, screaming at him to reload and fire. He wrenched his eyes away from the downed man by sheer will and tried to go back into automatic load and fire mode, but every few seconds he'd glance that way, only to be yelled at again by Pedrona, who wouldn't leave him alone.

Then just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He vaguely heard trumpets sound, and realized it was the other side calling a retreat. He prayed desperately not to be given the order to go forward and attack the retreating army with bayonets – and wasn't. _Stand down_, came down the line, then _retreat to camp._ For whatever unknown reason, General Guerrero's troops were being given a pass, this time.

But that battle catapulted Diego into a whole new waking nightmare, as every few weeks after that seemed to find him in another battle, either pitched or running – and a few times when they were overrun by the enemy, or overran their lines, in hand-to-hand combat. As Jaime had said, though, in the frenzy of the moment, it was stab or be stabbed. Yet he somehow managed to avoid making any fatal blows, either hanging back a fraction of a second or doing more shoving and dodging than stabbing or slicing. And in between, of course, endless long marches back and forth.

And he began to take Jaime's other bits of advice, on how to aim just ever-so-slightly high or low, to decrease the chances of _his_ bullet hitting anyone. The rifles they used were notoriously bad, sending their shots every which way – and thus commanders relied on mass firepower rather than marksmanship. One hundred bullets all at once will do some damage to the other side, even if any given individual bullet goes wild. Nor were the soldiers ever given a chance for solo target practice, for the same reason; so Diego couldn't have sighted in his rifle if he wanted to. Not that he did.

In the middle of his third battle, Diego suddenly realized he had palmed a bullet without thinking instead of dropping it into the gun. He fired his blank, then managed to put the bullet back in the pouch when he went for another premade cartridge of powder and bullet, which were loaded and tamped down separately. It was so easy that he began doing the same thing about every fifth shot, giving that one tiny sop to his conscience. _This_ time he wouldn't do any damage. Late each night, he would take the bullets out of the pouch and toss them away into shrubbery.

But he had forgotten about Pedrona.

The Corporal never stayed in one place, even during battle, but would stalk up and down behind the lines of his company, watching and yelling orders. He kept an especially close eye on the convicts, none of whom he trusted, and most especially on Vega and Mendoza, whom he despised. And of course he knew all the tricks a soldier might use to try to shirk his duty. He thought there was something wrong with Vega's shooting, but couldn't put his finger on it, until one day, watching secretly from behind, he was sure he saw Vega palm a bullet, and grinned his broken-toothed evil grin.

He waited till the battle was over, then, not letting the soldiers relax as usual, he called his squadron to attention in formation. Colonel Gallegos noticed and rode his horse over, demanding to know why. "You'll see in a moment, sir!" Then he gave the order for each man to empty his cartridge pouch on the ground in front of him.

Diego knew instantly he was caught. Pedrona was standing directly before him, grinning as he repeated the order. All up and down the line, the others were grumbling as they complied with the nonsensical order, crouching slightly so their cartridges landed in a small pile by their feet. Finally, he knew he had no choice, so Diego simply turned the pouch over and let everything fall out. Along with the dozen-or-so unused cartridges all the others turned out, another dozen loose bullets fell to the ground, their telltale clink as they hit rocks sounding loud in the sudden silence. Jaime closed his eyes and thought a silent prayer.

Pedrona turned towards Colonel Gallegos and began to explain, "Sir, this man has been palming bullets – ", but Gallegos needed no explanation. His face turning purple with fury, he finally spat out four words: "Twenty-five lashes. Now," before he turned and spurred away.

Grinning in triumph, Pedrona motioned to several of his sycophants standing near Diego in formation. "Arrest Vega!" _Here we go again,_ flittered through Diego's mind as two of them grabbed his arms. He struggled briefly, until three others followed with their still-loaded guns pointed at his head and chest. Seeing them, he didn't have the death wish to continue.

There were no stocks to be had, of course, but a nearby tree sufficed. His captors led him to it, pulled off his coat and shirt, then tied his hands together with rope from a supply wagon, threw the end over a fat limb a few feet over his head, pulled it tight, and tied it off. He was still dazed by the sheer speed at which his world had turned upside down, yet again, and trying desperately to remain stoic about his fate and take his punishment like a man.

Then Pedrona stood the rest of the company at attention on three sides of a square, with Diego's tree on the fourth. He stood in the center, along with two of his followers still brandishing their guns, caressing his bullwhip – a thick, nasty, thirty-foot leather lash with a foot-long hardwood handle – enjoying the attention, the muttering both for and against him as emotions ran high all around. He let it go on a few minutes, building the tension before the release to come.

Then he turned and called Mendoza up out of the ranks.

Jaime stared. What was Pedrona doing? "Mendoza, report here _NOW!"_ came the repeated shout, and Jaime's feet took him forward of their own volition. He was shaking with devastation and fear for his friend. He stopped before Pedrona, not bothering to salute him, and stared at him with hatred showing nakedly on his face. _You called me up here to witness this first hand?_

Pedrona just smirked.

And then he turned the bullwhip around, and held it out handle first to Jaime.


	14. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN**

There wasn't a single sound from the watching square. Jaime stared at Pedrona with dread and revulsion. "No. I will not..." That was as far as he got, for Pedrona pulled out his own pistol and pointed it directly between Jaime's eyes, while his two cronies also pointed their rifles at him.

"Twenty-five lashes," Pedrona drawled, loving every syllable. "Or you die right here."

"No..." His voice was only a horrified whisper.

"_Jaime..."_ Shocked further, Jaime realized the new voice was coming from Diego. His friend had turned his head to see what was going on. _"Do it. It's going to happen. Your death won't stop it." _Staring at each other with anguished faces, Jaime saw Diego give him a tiny nod before turning back to the tree trunk.

Quaking, Jaime brought his right hand up almost involuntarily, and Pedrona placed the whip's handle into it, then let go and backed off a pace, still aiming his pistol. Startled by the weight, Jaime stared downwards, still shaking his head and whispering "No..."

"You'd better start, old man. On the count of three." Jaime heard a chuckle from Pedrona's cronies. He didn't dare look at the watching square. There was nothing he could do.

"One..." Jaime turned sideways, letting the coils fall to the ground as he took firmer hold of the wooden handle. He'd done this once, years before, meeting out a few lashes on a miscreant under his command, had gotten it over as fast as he could, and had never wished to repeat it. Devastation and disgust were at war in his belly.

"Two..." Jaime heard Pedrona cocking his pistol a foot behind his head and knew if he didn't do as ordered, that would be the last sound he heard. Lungs heaving, tears starting unnoticed down his cheeks, he turned his head towards his target, trying desperately to forget whose white back he was being forced to aim at. His right hand moved out, ready.

"THREE!" shouted Pedrona in his ear. Still he hesitated, unable to move, until Pedrona stuck his pistol right up against the back of his head. _"I'm not gonna count again,"_ came his malicious whisper. _"NOW!"_

And with the shout, tears now blessedly nearly blinding him, Mendoza swung his arm and began.

* * *

When at last Pedrona yelled out "Twenty-five!", Jaime dropped the whip in the dirt, knowing he'd never be rid of the feeling of that wooden handle in his hand. Without even glancing at anyone, he walked stiffly to Diego, now hanging from his arms, nearly unconscious, pulled out his belt knife and sawed through the rope around Diego's wrists, managing to catch his dead weight and pull him across his shoulders. He got the weight settled, turned, and trudged slowly back the quarter mile to the supply wagons. Pedrona dismissed the company, who silently drifted apart, no one looking at any other, sickened by what they had seen. A small knot of men – all fellow convicts – followed Jaime slowly, ready to help if he needed it. He never noticed until he reached the camp now being set up around the wagons. One of the followers leaped forward to find Diego's pack on the wagon and pulled out his bedroll, then several helped Jaime lower Diego onto it on his stomach. Jaime simply put their tent up over and around Diego, then crawled inside without a word and tied the door flaps closed. Not looking at each other, the others slowly broke up and found their own spaces.

The day rolled slowly by, as Diego's blood coagulated in the horrific stripes. Somebody found Diego's abandoned shirt and coat and shoved it into the tent without a word. Once the campfires were going, another man heated up some water and brought the pot to Jaime with some rags; Jaime thanked him gruffly and got to work cleaning Diego's back as carefully as he could. Once that was done, he pulled out the jar of salve he had acquired a few weeks before against the inevitable wounds and slavered it liberally on the cuts. Diego flinched and moaned at this, but Jaime kept going doggedly until it was done. Then he merely sat on his bedroll beside his friend, softly weeping in shame and anguish.

Diego lurched in and out of consciousness, his back a mass of fire. He was aware of what Jaime was doing, but couldn't move at first, completely undone. He'd made it through the first few stripes without a sound, but then, as Pedrona kept yelling at Jaime to do it harder and harder, or he'd add more to the total, he'd finally begun to grunt – and then a scream was ripped out of him, and another, and another, until he'd collapsed, half-delirious from the pain, for the last few blows.

Now he was trying to gather himself together, to think, to plan, to figure out how to move forward. He heard Jaime weeping softly beside him, and without looking, reached out that hand and took hold of Jaime's arm.

"Diego, I..." Jaime didn't even know what he meant to say.

"Stop, Jaime." Diego's voice was the barest whisper. "I have already forgiven you. You had no choice. And it would have happened anyway."

There was nothing more to say, so both were silent. Jaime knew that forgiving himself was going to be the problem, but it was _his_ problem, not Diego's.

At last, Diego began whispering again, low and fierce, but Jaime knew it wasn't directed at him. "I am Don Diego de la Vega. Son of Don Alejandro de la Vega. Grandson of Don Federico de la Vega, the founder of Los Angeles and the first caballero in California. My father and grandfather built the pueblo, and our rancho, from the ground up, with their own hands and their own sweat and blood and their own money. The de la Vegas have dedicated their lives to making it a community, worth living in for everyone. And I have done, and will do, the same." He lifted his head then, opening his eyes and staring at the tent wall inches away as if he could see the future there. "I will not let them beat me. I will survive this war, this hell. I will make it back home, to my wife, my family. And I will continue the work they have begun, until it is finished. I swear this on the blood of my own back. _I will survive._"

Jaime was barely breathing then, staring at his friend's profile. At last, Diego turned his head to look up at him with eyes so intense they pierced his soul. "And so will you," he finished, his voice brooking no argument. "We will _both_ make it home. They will _not_ beat us down."

At that moment, Jaime was about as broken as he had ever been, but somehow he managed to take strength from Diego's own eyes. His back slowly straightened, and he finally nodded. He pulled his arm gently back from Diego's grasp, until their hands met, and they sealed their pact with that most prosaic, most profound of actions, a simple, firm handshake.


	15. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN**

They were left alone for the rest of that day and night, but the next morning came the call to move out. Jaime had contrived a large bandage to cover the wounds, and Diego could wear his shirt over it, but not the coat, which he carried under one arm. But he was standing in the formation, his face drawn but absolutely rock-hard determined. Pedrona snickered at him, but let him be. If the fool could keep up, he could keep up.

Jaime stood beside him, holding Diego's pack before him while wearing his own. After Pedrona snickered again and moved on, the soldier standing beyond Jaime reached out and silently took Diego's pack, nodding at the two. Without a word, the men around them – convicts and conscripts alike – shared the burden, passing the pack along every half an hour or so, and lending a shoulder whenever Diego stumbled, until he could walk unaided again. Whether Colonel Gallegos took pity on the wounded man or it was just coincidence, they only marched a few miles that day, stopping mid-afternoon and setting up a new temporary camp. Diego collapsed onto his bedroll the moment he could and didn't move until the next morning.

Drawing on reserves of strength he had never even had to tap as Zorro, Diego pushed himself to keep going. In only three days, he was marching steadily. In five, he put his coat back on. And before two weeks had passed, the cuts nearly healed – although he would carry the scars for the rest of his life – his pack was once more on his own back.

When the next battle came, he knew damn well Pedrona was not going to move more than three steps away from him, so he did every little thing by the book, loading and firing each bullet, while never looking past the end of his barrel. He never smiled, rarely said a single word, just moved and stopped and obeyed mechanically. The days and weeks and months began to blur into one long waking nightmare, as Diego did his best to follow Jaime's advice and not think, while trying to keep a sense of himself tucked way down deep inside. He had given up long before on Don Alejandro's shouted promise to bring them home somehow; it would have happened a long time ago already.

But if Pedrona had been hoping to break "Vega's" hold over the other men, he was disappointed. Diego never gave any directions, or even nodded or shook his head at anyone, seemingly oblivious to his own influence, but whenever Pedrona issued orders to the men in Diego's orbit, they automatically glanced at Diego before complying. If it was a group order – to rise and form up, for instance – no one moved until he did. That he did so immediately kept it from becoming obvious disobedience, but Pedrona saw each time, and it only made him hate Vega more. He was determined to break through and break him down to nothing somehow.

The days and months dragged slowly on, two long years and more passing in drudgery and bits of terror, as the Mexican rebellion continued in fits and starts. The company was assigned to man a garrison in the north for all of one winter, spending the weeks tramping uselessly around the countryside with nary a rebel in sight. But before they got too comfortable, Guerrero and Calderone pulled together a mighty army and smashed several companies of the Army of New Spain before melting into the landscape again. The 101st Veracruz Rifles were pulled out of their cozy garrison and marched south again, with specific orders to wreak as much havoc on the countryside as they could along the way. Colonel Gallegos and his officers, especially down to Corporal Pedrona, grinned and took to the task with relish, taking out all their frustrations with being stuck here in this backwater country so far from Madrid or even Mexico City on any peasant who crossed their path.

Diego and Jaime managed to keep clear of the morass for several weeks, simply quietly not taking part in the rampage. They never fired a barn or a house, or shot at the farmers and shopkeepers – and somehow Pedrona didn't catch them at it, either. But Diego had realized he did have a limit: while he could mechanically fire on actual soldiers firing at him, he would never lift a finger to harm an innocent civilian.

But of course their luck didn't hold forever. Things came to a head five days out of the town of Tanque Verde, when Gallegos called a halt to their march in a long, lovely, wooded valley nestled between two high ridges. He knew there were several small villages in the valley, but hadn't been able to locate any of them, nor any of the inhabitants he knew must have been watching their every move. So he ordered a large bonfire to be built in the center of a several-acre meadow, and then ordered the men to make torches and prepare to fire the forest. "Burn down this whole damn valley! Burn all the vermin out!" Gallegos shouted, his face ugly with frustration and fury.

"You heard him!" Pedrona shouted at his squadron. "Get moving! Make torches!" As usual, his own followers started to turn, but those in the other informal camp turned as one and looked at Diego Vega to see what he would do.

Which was to stand tall, staring straight at Pedrona, not moving a muscle. "No," was all his quiet reply.

"_What did you say?"_ the Corporal screamed, attracting the attention of the already-angry Colonel. Gallegos turned his horse and walked him over to the trouble spot, signaling the other officers to stop their men, too.

"No," Diego repeated. A fine speech came to his head, the kind Zorro used to make, about respecting noncombatants and leaving them alone, about not murdering innocents, but he didn't waste his breath. He heard Jaime take a deep breath beside him, but when he flicked his eyes that way, his friend was standing as tall and still as he was himself. Sticking to his best friend and partner.

Of course this drove Pedrona into a frenzy, shouting "Mutiny!" and raining curses and promises of retribution on their heads. He was cut short by Gallegos, who walked his horse right up to Diego and said, "I'm giving you a direct order, soldier. Pick up a torch, and start burning that forest, or suffer the consequences."

Diego looked up at his commander, took a deep breath, and silently dropped his eyes again, staring sightlessly straight ahead. He didn't move. Neither did Jaime. They were still surrounded by a couple of dozen soldiers, those who had come to look to Diego, all wearing varying degrees of uncertainty or resolution on their faces.

Gallegos knew how to nip a rebellion in the bud: execute the ringleaders. So he calmly gave the order to arrest Vega and Mendoza, and execute them on the spot for mutiny. No need for a trial, he proclaimed, they had both proven their guilt for all to see and hear.

Soldiers under the other corporals were brought across the meadow to bind Diego's and Jaime's hands behind their backs and blindfold them, while the others in their squad were ordered at gunpoint to stand down and move off, which they did reluctantly – after Diego nodded to them. Then the two prisoners were led to one side of the meadow and stood against the cliff face, while the entire company was brought to stand at attention in punishment formation, three sides of a square, to watch the execution. Gallegos had no doubt the demonstration would take care of this little problem.

The other three corporals were told to quickly select two men each at random, who were then brought up to form the firing squad. Their rifles were duly loaded, and inspected by Colonel Gallego's second in command, Major Dumas.

"I'm sorry, mi amigo," Diego said quietly to Jaime beside him. "I didn't get you home, after all."

"It is my choice to stand here with you," Jaime replied. "I can't do what they want, either. It is better to die here as men of principle, than return home as mice." He wished he were as proudly confident as his words sounded.

Diego's head was whirling; this had all happened so suddenly. Surely this couldn't be the end, could it? After everything he had been through? But he couldn't take it back now, nor did he want to. He just wished he could have seen Victoria one last time, kissed her, held their child. Hell, he wished he knew whether either or both were even still alive.

In moments, all was ready. The firing squad was lined up the correct number of paces away, the company ordered unnecessarily to silence. Gallegos and his officers stood to one side to watch, as the Colonel gave the orders.

"Ready!" Diego felt the sun warm on the top of his head and tilted it back to feel its caress on his cheeks one last time.

"Aim!" _Victoria..._ he thought.

And it was at that exact moment that it sounded: the long, bloody scream of a red-tailed hawk pierced the air from above their heads, sounding from one side of the valley to the other, echoing off cliffs and tumbled boulders. The loudest hawk anyone had ever heard – it must be a monster, the size of a horse. Every single man standing in the meadow knew what it meant, and was frozen into place in sheer terror.

And the partisan warrior known as El Halcón launched his lethal attack.


	16. Chapter 16 - Part Three

**PART THREE – NOON**

**SIXTEEN**

The order to fire and execute the two mutineers died in Colonel Gallegos' throat, as the monster hawk's scream presaging the attack of El Halcón echoed from one side of the valley to the other. It was followed within seconds by rifle fire coming from the trees, then the shouts and screams of panicked men running every which way. Chaos reigned in the 101st Veracruz Rifles, and the Colonel was utterly unable to regain control. Of course, the fact that the first round of shots from the trees had cut both him and his Major down probably had something to do with that.

Diego and Jaime, still blindfolded and with hands tied behind their backs, knew only what they could hear. _"Jaime! Get down!"_ Diego called frantically as he buckled his knees and allowed himself to faceplant in the turf. He heard Jaime's "oof!" a moment later beside him.

"Diego? What do we do?" Jaime panted.

"Shh. Can you get your hands loose?" Diego was frantically trying to twist his wrists, but he was bound too tightly. He knew without trying that, although he might have done it years ago, these days he was entirely too stiff and unbendable to work his arms around his butt and legs to the front.

"No." Jaime was tied too well also.

"All right," Diego said, trying to be as calm as he forced his voice to be, trying to _think_ past the blood singing in his veins that he still lived, when just moments ago... He shook his head to clear it. "The only thing we can do is just lie here and pretend to be dead, until it's over and they've gone. Then we'll get loose somehow and..." Not knowing how to end that sentence, he let it trail off.

"But it's El Halcón! Diego... We'll be found."

"You have another idea?" Diego was trying to rub his blindfold off on the grass, but it wouldn't budge, either. "I can't even get my eyes free. We'd be stumbling blind, easy targets."

"No," Jaime answered the first question after a rough pause.

So they lay still and listened, trying to breath as lightly as possible and not move at all. They heard the shouted commands of various officers – not recognizing any of the voices – as they tried to bring order; heard lots of running and screaming and shouting, much of it seeming to fade into the distance; heard volley after volley, both from their company's rifles – not as many as there should have been – and coming from the trees.

Time crawled by – it would have been impossible to guess how much had really passed – half an hour? six hours? – until the din of battle slowly faded away. And then they heard what they had been dreading: horses and men coming into the meadow, beginning to pick their way across. El Halcón and his men were scavenging. They seemed to be moving very quietly, and never shouted, but still, they came – inexorably.

Diego suddenly felt something bump into his back, then his neck and cheek, and realized it was a horse's muzzle snuffling at him. He tried not to twitch, not even breathe, but the horse wouldn't move off, continuing to nudge his side and whicker softly. Why wouldn't it go away?

"Diablo? What are you doing?" he heard a man call softly from several yards away. His heart nearly stopped when he realized a couple of men had walked over to himself and Jaime and were poking at them.

"Capitán?" one of them said. "These prisoners are still alive! I don't think they were even shot!"

Diego cursed silently, himself or the horse, or both. A moment later, he felt hands grab his arms, and he was hauled up onto his knees, and heard Jaime get the same treatment at his side. He took a deep breath and held himself up straight, determined to face whatever hell was coming next with fortitude, as befitting a caballero.

Footsteps approached, and then his blindfold was wrenched off. Blinking, he peered up into the shocked face of a young man, in his early twenties perhaps, his long brown hair pulled back and tied, a full beard trimmed close. But it was his eyes that drew Diego's own stare, eyes that widened inexplicably in what looked like horrified confusion, eyes that were somehow _so_ familiar...

The man staggered back a step, two... and then his knees apparently collapsed and landed him on his butt in the dirt, still staring wildly at Diego. And then it clicked.

_It was Felipe._

With dawning, incredulous joy, Diego stared at the lost son of his heart and adopted brother, who had disappeared south so many years before without a word. _"Felipe?"_ he got out. "Is that you?"

Why was he shaking his head? Why was he staring at him in horror? Beside Diego, still-blindfolded Jaime jerked, echoing the name. "Felipe?"

Looking that way, Felipe jerked his chin, and the man standing behind Jaime pulled off his blindfold. Diego saw recognition cross the boy's face before he turned back. And then – the last thing Diego expected – mute Felipe began speaking. The words were hardly more startling than the fact.

"No. No! You're dead!_ I saw you dead!"_

"Dead? When – " Diego began, as confused as Felipe looked, but Jaime broke in.

"Felipe – you're talking?"

Felipe glanced back at Jaime briefly before chopping one hand down dismissively. "I have been for years," he replied harshly, then turned back to Diego. "I saw you lying dead!" He was almost accusing.

"When? Where?" Diego got out that time.

"At the hacienda, after the earthquake! You and Father both were lying by the front door, staring up at nothing, _dead!"_

A small part of his mind registered the name, Father, but the rest fastened on the fact. He was more confused than ever. "Felipe, that's not possible. Nobody died in the earthquake. Father and I were in the pueblo, at the cantina, when it struck. When we got back to the hacienda, you had disappeared, along with Toronado – " The horse, he realized, and swung his head around to stare at the so-familiar muzzle a foot from his face. _"Toronado!"_ he breathed joyously, and was rewarded by his old stallion leaning in and blowing at him. He managed to tear his eyes away and back to Felipe and got back to his story. "We tracked you the next day, and found you had chased him on foot, then you caught him at that spring... and kept going south. Why? Felipe... why didn't you come home?" This, the question that had been tearing at him for all these years, came straight from his broken heart.

"_Why?"_ If a person could wail in a whisper, Felipe was doing it. "Because you were _dead!_ I had _nothing! Oh, god!"_ His face twisted in utmost anguish, Felipe rolled to one side and put his head in his hands, as the magnitude of his apparent boyhood error rolled over him.

Diego moved involuntarily, wanting to go to him and gather him up, but his hands were still tied behind his back, and his guard grabbed his shoulder to keep him still. One of El Halcón's men, he suddenly remembered. Glancing around, he saw many other men, all tough, hardened fighters, none in uniform, armed to the teeth, standing around, watching them. A pair of leggy, rangy dogs, one brown, one black, were likewise watching, crouched down just past Felipe, ready to burst into action on command. Diego looked askance at them, but they didn't move. Just to his left, watching just as silently as all the rest, scowling darkly at him, was an older man with white hair and mustache, with the look of an old soldier about him. _That must be El Halcón himself_, Diego realized. _Felipe is riding with the partisans_ echoed in his mind. _How could that have happened?_

After a moment, Felipe managed to look back at him, and registered the tied hands. "Cut them loose!" he hoarsely ordered the two guards, who quickly reached with their knives to cut the ropes. But then another question butted in. "What are you doing in the Army?" Felipe asked in evident disbelief.

Oh, how Diego wished he didn't have to answer that – at least, not on his knees in this situation. "We were press-ganged," he said, trying for an even tone as he brought his freed arms around and began massaging his sore wrists. "Both of us."

That got a look of frank disbelief. "A don – and a sergeant?"

"I wasn't a sergeant – " That was as far as Jaime got, a little louder than he should have in his distress, before both Felipe and the old man hissed him silent.

"Keep it down," the old man said harshly, adding, "sound carries."

Felipe was kinder, patting the air with one hand and nodding.

Jaime swallowed his offense and began again, matching their volume. "I wasn't a sergeant any more. De Soto had kicked me out for... well, it's a long story," he ended lamely.

"Aren't they all?" Felipe tossed it off, obviously rhetorically, because he turned bewildered, inquiring eyes back to Diego, who'd had time now to condense his story down to the bare bones.

"De Soto never had any proof that I was Zorro," Diego began, "but he suspected, especially after Victoria and I were married. So after all the traps he set for me didn't work, he set both of us up, framed us for _horse theft,"_ he still couldn't say the words without bitter sarcasm, "and turned us over immediately to a press gang – the same gang _we_ stopped that last night." _The last time Zorro ever rode._ Again, he saw the recognition flicker in Felipe's eyes.

El Halcón (presumably) growled out then, "And why were you about to be executed?"

Felipe glanced quickly up at the old man in surprise, then back to Diego, waiting. Taking a deep breath, Diego straightened his back again and stared at the ground. "Because I refuse to do murder. I won't kill innocent civilians, or set fire to their houses or barns – or this forest." He felt Jaime straighten at his side and nod agreement.

"You were given orders?" The old man asked in a hard voice. Diego nodded. "And you refused?" Another nod. "Mutiny. And cowardice." He pronounced flatly.

Jaime flared. "Don Diego is not a coward! He's a man of principle! I don't expect _you_ to understand!' he ended, greatly daring, Diego thought, to be baiting El Halcón.

"You're right, I don't – neither of you!" came the response, but then, astoundingly, Felipe cut him off.

"That's enough! Both of you!" Felipe looked up at the old man. "What's gotten into you?" He didn't wait for an answer, though. Taking a huge breath and letting it out in exasperation, Felipe rubbed his face with both hands, and then, shocking Diego, let out an explosive _"FUCK!"_ before rolling swiftly to his feet. Turning, he saw a big ring of men watching them all, pointed at two of them and then the two horses belonging to Diego's erstwhile commander and second, telling them in a carrying whisper to catch them and "make them silent", whatever that meant.

The old man jumped in. "We're taking prisoners?" he asked incredulously, Diego thought, for the younger man snatching his authority.

"No, we're not taking prisoners," Felipe turned and said sarcastically. He stabbed a finger at Diego, still on his knees. He hadn't dared move. _"That..._ is my _brother._ Do you honestly expect me to just _leave_ him here, what, for the next commander to finish his execution?" Diego found he was holding his breath, as his little brother apparently argued for Diego's life with his own commander.

"I expect you to remember why we're fighting!"

"Why we're – " Felipe broke off with a snort, then came right back in the old man's face, radiating sarcasm. "And why _are_ we fighting then, Costa, if not for our brothers? Hmm?" Another snort. "You just didn't realize it was literal." He turned again to face Diego and Jaime, hands on his hips. "Congratulations," he said, ratcheting the sarcasm back. "You both just switched sides."

Diego glanced sideways at El Halcón, who was seething silently. "I won't do murder for your side, either." _Let's get it right out in the open_, he thought – but then he was completely startled when Felipe let out a full – albeit quiet – peal of laughter.

"Now that's the most 'Diego' thing you've said yet," he commented drily to the air, then looked back at his brother on the ground. "And you won't. We fight. We don't murder. We can argue where the line is later – and probably will," he added aside. He looked back at Diego, and when the other didn't move immediately, he added, "Unless _you'd_ like to wait for the executioner to come and finish?"

"That wouldn't be my first choice, no," Jaime put in hurriedly, then poked Diego in the ribs with an elbow. As Felipe snorted at Jaime, grinning, Diego winced and shook his head reluctantly, a little irritated that his brother was smiling at Jaime, while scowling at himself.

"Then stand up," Felipe said with the air of an order, "and consider yourselves under my command, until we figure out what to do with you."

"_Your_ command?" Diego asked, astounded. He glanced at the old man, who was saying nothing.

Felipe ignored him, saying to their two guards, "Get them ready. No color, no metal."

"Si, Capitán!" came the replies, knocking Diego even further off kilter.

"Capitán?" he echoed, exchanging bewildered glances with Jaime as the guards grabbed their upper arms again and hauled them to their feet. A glance at the old man, Costa, showed him smiling slightly now, enjoying their confusion.

Felipe still ignored them, stepping back a pace as a hawk's cry – a normal-sized one – sounded from above, then he lifted his right fist and caught the small red-tailed hawk on his leather glove. Lowering the fist, he stroked the bird's breast feathers with his left finger, clucking at it, then transferred the hawk to his left shoulder – which Diego finally saw had a leather patch sewn onto it. As the bird turned around to face forward, Felipe crossed his arms and stared levelly at Diego, eyebrows raised, daring him to react.

It had finally dawned. _"You're_ El Halcón?"

"Yup," came the dead-level, expressionless reply. "Surprised?"

"A little, yeah," Diego admitted, understating his shock. He didn't think he fooled Felipe.

"Diego," said Jaime, trying for a conversational tone, "I'm going to stop being surprised. I can't take any more."

Felipe once more snorted a laugh at Jaime. "Good plan," he approved with a smile and wrinkled nose, then looked at Diego again, his expression sliding into disappointment. "You of all people should know... don't believe everything you hear." He raked Diego with an appraising glance. "You think of El Halcón and his men as a pack of bloodthirsty thugs, outlaws, preying on anyone they come across." A tight little shake of his head negated that idea. His eyes flashed with sudden anger and pride. "No. We are partisans, guerrilleros. Our mission is to protect _everyone_ who lives in these mountains from the predators in the Army of New Spain, like your former commander," he added with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder at the deceased Colonel. "And to do our part for the rebellion." Felipe stared a moment at Diego, before asking him softly, "Did you really think I would go against _everything _you taught me?"

Diego's head was spinning. He couldn't put this armed and angry guerrillero together with the young boy he'd raised. "I thought I had taught you nonviolence," he managed to get out, his pride hurt.

Felipe barked a short, derisive laugh. "While wielding a sword, to defend those who could not defend themselves?" He suddenly threw out both hands, palm up, glancing quickly around at the mountains – the ones he was sworn to protect, he had said. "The only difference here is one of scale... and how far I will go against my enemies."

Costa cut in then, growling one word: "Time."

"Yeah," Felipe acknowledged, not moving his eyes from Diego's. Then he said to Diego and Jaime: "Find your packs, and stuff them, please. We need the supplies. Fifteen minutes," he told their guards, then turned away to the man who was approaching him with papers – and Colonel Gallegos' dispatch pouch – in his hands. "What have you got?"


	17. Chapter 17

**SEVENTEEN**

"Where are your packs, Señores?" Diego's guard asked.

Diego didn't answer, couldn't wrench his eyes away from Felipe standing a few yards away, asking the man holding the dispatches if he could decode them (of course, he said).

"Um..." Jaime began, thinking, " – the supply wagon! If they weren't stolen. Diego!"

"Yeah..." Diego finally managed to turn, but Jaime stopped him again.

"Diego! Where is your watch?"

Dropping his eyes to his waist pocket, Diego patted it unnecessarily, then the others. "Oh, no!" He looked wildly around on the ground where he'd been standing, lying, and kneeling, such a short time before, while the others did, as well. It was nowhere to be seen. "No!" He looked back at Jaime in anguish. "Somebody stole it in the confusion, while I was blindfolded."

"It's only a watch, Señor," one of the guards said, trying to pacify him.

"No, it's not," Diego contradicted him flatly. "It was my grandfather's."

The man was human, after all. "I'm sorry," he began, but then they were interrupted by a low, warbling whistle that instantly caught the attention of everyone in the meadow. It was Felipe, who told them all in a surprisingly carrying whisper to "look out for a watch" and hooked a thumb towards Diego. They nodded, and stooped again to their work. Diego wanted to thank him, but his brother ignored him, leaning over the officers' corpses to collect their swords.

The next few minutes kept Diego's head whirling, not quite able to catch up and absorb what had happened, and who was who. Their packs _were_ on the supply wagon, and hadn't yet been raided. Several partisans were already there, picking through the bags of flour, beef, and other food, selecting some to tie behind their saddles. Diego and Jaime grabbed some small bags and added them to their packs. Others in the company, he noticed, were busy gathering all the guns and ammunition scattered around the meadow and carrying them into the forest, to place them in caches, he assumed. One man, on Felipe's orders, was selecting two corpses and arranging them where Diego and Jaime had been standing, turning them into the execution victims. Finally, several more were at last putting out the bonfire Diego's erstwhile commander had started in order to burn the forest down.

The tar pots were found, and the two men told to use the tar to cover the red convict stripes on their pants – an order they both complied with willingly – as well as the brass buttons on their coats; all to lessen the chances of their being spied from a distance. Less welcome was the instruction to Diego to remove his wedding ring. He held up that hand. "My knuckle is swollen. It won't come off." So they had him cover that with tar, too, just in case. _No color, no metal,_ Felipe had said. _That's what he meant._

Meanwhile, Diego kept glancing at Felipe – he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off his brother. Felipe had slipped one sword under his belt, next to the one he wore, but picked up the second and jammed it hard point down into the rocky ground, then tied a large feather picked from a pouch on his belt to the sword's tassle. A few quick words with the old man – _Costa,_ Diego reminded himself – and others followed as they finished their various tasks.

He was finishing with the tar when Felipe's voice came from a few yards behind him. "Diego." Turning around, he found himself in a slightly surreal scene, as Felipe insisted that Toronado – whom he called Diablo – "needed to decide whose horse he was". So the two men stood several yards apart and each called the stallion, who immediately walked over to his new master and head-butted him, although not before whickering an apology to his old one. Diego could have told Felipe that would happen – in fact, he had tried to, but been overridden.

_What is wrong with you, boy?_ Diego thought, watching Felipe lean against his horse in evident relief for a moment, then secure his stolen sword under a saddlebag before sending Diablo off with a word across the field. _You haven't even greeted me yet._

As if he had heard, Felipe turned suddenly to Diego with such an expression of confusion and pain that it twisted the older man's heart. Felipe opened his mouth to say something – but at that moment they were interrupted by several whistled signals, so he visibly swallowed whatever it was, and buried it under the business of getting Diego and Jaime mounted up on their former officers' horses, their augmented packs tied over the saddlebags rather than on their backs, and inserted into the forming partisan line with a few terse instructions.

"What's your name?" the man in front of Diego, tasked with looking after him, asked.

"Vega," he replied without thinking.

"Sanchez."

Felipe – all Capitán now – had mounted Diablo at the head of the line with a single athletic leap, the hawk on his shoulder flapping his wings to keep his perch. Felipe turned the horse around, and held up a fist. "That's the ready signal," Sanchez said over his shoulder, holding his up in turn as the wave went down the line. Diego, and a few men later Jaime, followed suit. As it reached Costa at the back, the Capitán swung his fist in a tight circle above his head, pulled Diablo around again, and they were off.

He led them single-file up the side of the mountain on what couldn't have been more than deer tracks, zigzagging back and forth, the dogs running quietly alongside the line of horses. Diego had time to register how quietly they all were moving, leaning over to see the small pieces of rags woven through metal bits in his new horse's tack, as well as the leather boots that had been slipped over his shoes. _So that's what he meant about making them silent._ Being the taller and heavier of the two – although Jaime was no midget – he had grabbed the Colonel's tall, rawboned chestnut gelding. He knew from months of watching that tail that although the horse wasn't pretty, he had strength and stamina to spare.

An hour or so later, Felipe called a halt when they reached a yards-wide, tree-lined, sloping ledge halfway up the mountain, reaching absently up to his shoulder and launching the hawk into the air. Diego thought they must be almost directly over the battlefield, several hundred feet up. The line of men all pulled up and dismounted on the upslope side of the ledge, and began methodically checking their horses and tack. Diego, glancing over at Felipe as he had been every few seconds, saw him suddenly swing his head around and stare back at him with the same bewildered expression as before. Abruptly Felipe left Diablo and stalked purposely towards him, so Diego met him halfway. _Let's have this out, _he thought. _What in God's name is going on?_

"I don't understand this," Felipe jumped in, nearly accusing. "I _saw_ you dead."

"What _exactly_ did you see?" Diego asked. He needed information.

"In the front hall, between the front door and the parlor. You and Fa – Don Alejandro were both there, lying on your backs, covered in debris, staring up at the sky. The roof had fallen."

Diego was only more confused. "The hacienda wasn't damaged. Some things came off shelves, but the roof certainly didn't come down." He was aware on the periphery that every man in the company had stopped to watch and listen.

"_I know what I saw!" _Felipe was only getting more aggravated and upset at the memory.

Diego threw up his hands, placating. "Back up. Where were you when the earthquake hit?"

Felipe closed his eyes a moment, making himself take a deep breath. "I was in my room, on my bed, asleep. The quake threw me out of bed and woke me up, I grabbed my boots, went out – and there you were."

Some thought was trying to get Diego's attention, and a moment later, he had it. He remembered what he had told Father all those years ago, about his idea that the earthquake might have jarred Felipe's childhood memories loose. Something showed on his face, and Felipe took exception. _"I wasn't dreaming!"_ he practically shouted.

"I didn't say you were – "

"Then what _are_ you saying?"

"I had wondered at the time... if the earthquake had somehow... brought back the massacre for you. Not completely, of course. But..." He waved his hands, erasing the words to start over. "Look, obviously it wasn't me and Father you saw. There wasn't _anyone _there. I think maybe you saw your parents, after they were killed. And your mind... put our faces on them."

Diego had never seen such a look of stunned horror on anyone's face before, and hoped he never would again. Felipe took an involuntary step back, then another. His eyes left Diego's and drifted down, unfocusing as he must have been replaying that awful memory yet again. Then raw, terrible grief stole across him as he staggered back again. His lips moved, and Diego heard him softly whimper, "Mamí? Papí? No..." Then his gorge rose visibly and he whirled around, quickly lurched a dozen steps to a large tree, half-fell across a thigh-high branch, and began vomiting.

Diego walked slowly after him, glancing at Costa, whose face as he watched Felipe was as wretched as Diego himself felt. Although his fondest hopes for the boy had always been to see him whole again, such terrible memories were not what he had wanted. He stopped a step behind Felipe and put one hand on his back, unable to think of anything else.

Gradually the heaves stopped, trailing away into gasping sobs. At last, Felipe hauled himself upright by the trunk. He couldn't, wouldn't, turn to look at Diego, though.

"You don't know," he choked out, "how long I mourned for you. How much I missed you."

"I know how much I've missed _you_," Diego returned, devastated all over again. "And the worst part was not knowing why." He tried to pull on Felipe's shoulder, but was still resisted.

"I wanted to live a life that would have made you proud. But look at me. I'm just a killer. That's all I am. That's not what you taught me."

"So am I," Diego told him. "After they flogged me..." He saw Felipe jerk as that information hit. "I didn't have any choice. But willing or not, it doesn't change the facts. Felipe... I'm not judging you. I've no right to judge anyone." They were both talking softly now, too low for the men on the other side of the clearing to make out, although all were still watching, concern etched on every face.

"But that's not _all_ you are," Diego went on. "You're the leader of all these men, these fighters, at what, twenty-two? El Halcón. The Capitán. They follow you, respect you – anyone can see that. And that's _saying_ something. And I am _very_ proud of you for that."

This time, when he tugged again on Felipe's shoulder, the young man turned and looked back at him, his face wretched. Diego saw the boy again in his mind, staring up at him with fearful hope, asking what his last name was. With a sob, he reached with his other hand for Felipe's far shoulder and hauled him close, wrapping his arms around him, feeling him grab his shoulders in return, and the tears of joyful reunion came to both at last.


	18. Chapter 18

**EIGHTEEN**

Several minutes passed, as El Halcón's partisan company returned gradually to tend to their horses, then drifted across to the cliff edge to look down, crouching or standing among the pines for cover. Finally, Felipe and Diego drew apart. The moment was too deep for words, but Felipe tried. "Diego... I..."

"Capitán!" Costa's voice broke in apologetically. He was standing several feet away at the edge, like the others. When Felipe looked at him, Costa jerked his head sideways, down towards the valley floor.

Diego had been right, he saw when he peeked over the edge. He kneeled at first beside Felipe, then, suddenly exhausted from the turbulent emotions of the day, stretched out flat, propping himself up on his elbows. They _were_ directly above the meadow. Blue-clad bodies were strewn here and there across the open expanse, and he was glad they were high enough to blur any details. But into the meadow was now marching another company of the Army of New Spain, led by another commander on his horse. They were too far for Diego to make out the flags, not that he tried overly hard to identify them. Jaime, standing by Diego's feet, did, but the name meant nothing to Diego.

Felipe glanced at him. "Here's your would-be executioner. You thought I was joking about that?" He looked back down. The company had halted, and a few were venturing out from formation, investigating. A commotion visibly roiled through the column. "Feathers!" Felipe gasped, mock-afraid. "Oh my god! It's El Halcón! What do we do?" Laughter rippled down through the watchers.

The commander had dismounted near the dead officers, reached out, and was tugging on the sword Felipe had jammed into the earth. It wouldn't come loose.

"What did you do, put it in rock?" Costa growled from Diego's other side.

"Yeah," Felipe told him, nonchalance itself. "A deep crack between two boulders. The sword in the stone." Costa looked askance, while Diego laughed. Felipe shrugged at him, grinning.

The soldiers were still standing mostly in formation, looking around. Their fear was palpable even at that distance. "Come on, boys," Felipe murmured. "Turn around and go back. I don't want another battle today."

"Capitán?" one of his men asked from a few feet away. "A volley, to send them off?" He gestured with his rifle.

Felipe snickered, but then shook his head. "No. We're too far away. It wouldn't work. However..." He pushed himself up to his knees as his men grinned, knowing what was coming; sucked in a very deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and sent out an absolutely ear-splitting whistle: his infamous hawk's scream. Diego, wincing, heard it echoing back from the mirroring cliffs on the far side of the valley, just as Felipe's whistle had echoed to launch the attack that saved him such a short time before.

That did it. The commander below abandoned the sword stuck in the rocks, scrambled back into his saddle, swung his horse around, and ordered his men to reform, about face, and quick march back the way they came. "Run, boys, run!" laughed Felipe, while other jeers sounded down the line. "Good work, compañeros," he added, glancing around at his men. "Thank you." Several of them glanced back and nodded or smiled.

"I admit, that whistle is impressive," Diego commented when he could hear again.

Felipe grinned at him. "I learned a new tune," was all he said. It took Diego a second, then he cracked up again.

Felipe turned to see the backs of the last ranks disappear back into the trees, then gazed around the meadow. "How many of your company were convicts?" he asked Diego out of the blue.

"Only a handful. Most of them were conscripts," was the reply.

"Mexicans?"

"Mostly."

"Good," Felipe said cryptically.

"Good?" Diego echoed in disbelief. _What's good about that?_

Felipe gave him a level look, then dipped his head towards the meadow below. "You see any red or white stripes down there?"

He couldn't see features from that distance, but... after a moment's sweeping, he shook his head. "No." All the dead he could see were volunteers. _So?_ "Doesn't that bother you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Just leaving them down there."

"_I_ didn't leave them. _He_ did," Felipe nodded towards the departed commander, radiating innocence. Diego gave him _the look_, saying without words that he wasn't going to accept such sophistry from a grownup Felipe any more than the kid. Felipe snickered acknowledgment of the rebuke, then, serious again, gestured to different parts of the forest below. "There are three different villages hidden in the forest within five minute's walk," he began to explain. "By now, every man, woman, and child within ten miles knows what has happened down there, and are already gathering and watching. By sundown – hell, by midafternoon – that meadow will be picked clean, including the guns and ammunition – we didn't hide them that hard. And by morning, every dead man down there will have been properly buried, with words said over the grave – even if it's unmarked, and his name isn't known." He paused. "That's the bargain the villagers make, for the things they take, and their continued ability to hide and protect themselves during this war. So no, it doesn't bother me." A head shake emphasized that.

Then his voice hardened with anger. "What _does_ bother me, is knowing that _nobody_ they left behind," one hand pointing down to the dead littering the meadow, "will _ever_ know what happened to them. All they'll know is years from now, their son, their brother, their lover... never came home." The next words were suddenly ground out between clenched teeth in cold fury. "But one, there's not a _single goddamned thing_ I can do about that. And two, that would have happened no matter where and when they died. The Spanish Army never sends death notices home, you know that. It swallows men whole and they disappear." Diego and Felipe were staring into each other's eyes now, Diego wondering who this angry young man was.

Without looking away, Felipe suddenly said, "Costa! What's the count today?"

Behind Diego, the old soldier said crisply, "Thirty-four dead, seventy-six ran – including these two."

At that, Felipe did look at Costa, a sudden grin unexpectedly splitting his face. "Two-thirds ran?" He gave a peal of delighted laughter, then looked back at Diego's bewildered face. "And most of them conscripts." He leaned forward to emphasize. "_They'll_ make it home. That's the bargain _I_ make." He paused. "I try not make war on men like you, who don't even want to be here."

"Don't you chase them? Track them down?" Jaime asked, his eyes full of the stories he had heard about El Halcón.

Felipe's grin stretched as he turned to tell Jaime with evident satisfaction, "Never." He gave a mock shrug. "Attrition? Desertion? That's the Army's problem, not mine." His face suddenly hardened again. "So they hide it, by jacking up my body count, and spreading stories about me like the ones you've heard." He shrugged and admitted, "And I help, by dropping feathers on a few bodies after a battle. But they're all just random. I _never_ chase _anybody,_ and I sure as hell wouldn't recognize some random soldier from one battle to another."

"But why?" Diego asked, not getting it. Felipe turned back to him.

"Because it helps soldiers like your former compadres to decide to run when they hear my whistle, and once they're running, it helps them decide to _keep_ running, rather than form up or find the Army again. Eventually, some of them – hopefully _most_ of them – make it home. And it makes my job easier."

Jaime was grinning now, and he told Diego, "Don't believe everything you hear."

Felipe swiveled his head back with a wink and a click of the tongue, adding, "Precisely."

"Capitán?" One of Felipe's men had walked up, a paper in his hands. Diego recognized the code-breaker from the meadow below.

Felipe sprang to his feet. "Tell me what I need to know."

"You're not gonna like it," the man warned.

Felipe shot him a dire look as he took the paper, ignoring his men who all got to their feet and gathered loosely around, as if on cue. He read it quickly, letting out an outraged "Fuck!" halfway down.

Finishing, he thought for a minute, staring at the ground. Diego had jumped up, as well, and started to step over to Felipe to see what was going on, when a hand clamped on his shoulder and held him back. "Wait!" Costa growled in his ear. Diego threw up his hands and backed down, realizing again he wasn't anyone in this group.

"Anything else?" Felipe asked the code-breaker, who shook his head.

"Only routine."

"All right. Get all this to General Guerrero as soon as you can." Felipe handed the one page back.

"Si, Capitán." He stepped back into the group.

"How long ago did you leave Tanque Verde?" Felipe asked Diego crisply over his shoulder.

He thought fast. "Five days."

"Fast march?"

"Yes. Until this morning, anyway."

"Good."

Felipe thought another moment, then looked around quickly and pointed towards one horizon. "Norte." Then he began chopping down with his left hand towards the valley below, then his right, in parallel strokes, calling names. Diego realized with the third one that he was identifying the mountains and river valleys on either side of where they were, "drawing" a map in the air rather than in the dirt. He finished by pointing the direction and giving the distance of Tanque Verde and three or four other places. Most of the men were nodding, absorbing the map and orienting themselves.

"Compañeros!" Map finished, Felipe finally looked around at his men all gathered around. "This morning we broke one company, and sent another scurrying back to their mothers' skirts!" Snickers skittered through the group, but Felipe's next slightly sarcastic words stopped it. "And now we get to go break another one. This was a two-pronged attack! It was supposed to be three, but that second idiot was in the wrong valley. The third company is marching down the Rio Trenzado." It was the last of the river valleys he had named, two ridges to his right. One of his men stepped out of the group, concern writ large on his face.

"Santa Blanca?" he asked quickly.

"They won't make it there," Felipe answered him, his flat, menacing voice making it a solemn vow. He looked around again. "We ride hard, and beat them to Santa Blanca. We'll warn the village," he said directly to the concerned man, "then turn upstream to meet them." He thought a moment, his eyes unfocused. "We'll set up an ambush at the head of the valley. They'll be relaxing, thinking they made it through the canyon, looking forward to ripe pickings." Felipe's voice turned low and deadly. "We'll teach them not to relax in _our_ mountains!" A rumble of agreement ran around the circle.

"What if they _do_ beat us there?" the same man asked again.

Felipe shook his head. "Santa Blanca is well defended. They'll hold them off, and we'll hit them from the rear. They won't take the town, and they won't get past it. But they won't beat us – they can't have gotten there from Tanque Verde yet."

Costa growled out one word: "Rendezvous?" which puzzled Diego.

Felipe thought a moment, then said, "The Bishop," which also meant nothing to Diego. "It will only be twelve miles from there." He looked around. "Anything else?" No one spoke. "Then mount up. Let's go. First two up take scout – not you, Cortez," he said quickly to the concerned man, who had started to turn away. Cortez halted and looked back at him, hurt and puzzled.

But then Felipe went on, pointing to yet another man standing nearby. "You and Chuy go ahead, get to Santa Blanca as fast as you can. _Be careful_ on the road, and for god's sake make sure the town is clear before you go in. Warn the alcalde, get what information you can, and meet us back on the last ridge. Got it?"

Cortez's eyes had cleared, and he and Chuy both nodded. "Si, Capitán," Cortez answered for both, then added as he thought of it, "There's a farm on that ridge, north of the road. Big pasture, but screened by trees. We can camp there."

"Then that's where we'll meet. Now go. Do good things."

"Vaya con Díos, Capitán." And they ran for their horses.

Felipe turned around then, looking at Diego and Jaime, standing together. "Are you coming? Or are you running?"

"Oh, I'm coming," Diego answered him. "I'd like to get to know this rather amazing young man who has taken the place of the boy I used to know."

Felipe raised his eyebrows at him and smiled slightly, then turned to Jaime.

"I'm coming," Jaime told him shortly.

Felipe nodded. "Then mount up," he said simply.

As they walked towards their horses, Sanchez called to Diego. "Vega! You're still – "

"Excuse me?" Felipe cut him off. "It's _de la_ Vega."

"But..." Sanchez swallowed his objection at the look on his Capitán's face. "Sorry." He turned again to Diego. "De la Vega. You're still behind me."

"Thank you," Diego nodded, not saying anything more, while inside, a small sun rose to warm his heart. _Such a simple thing,_ he thought. _A name. My name._ He shared a quick, satisfied grin with Jaime.


	19. Chapter 19

**NINETEEN**

At last, just before sunset, Felipe's company arrived on the ridge overlooking the village of Santa Blanca in the Rio Trenzado valley. Cortez and Chuy were waiting for them beside the road, as well as the farmer whose land they were about to camp on. Diego heard Felipe greet the farmer with thanks and a handshake, then turned to his scouts with the same words he'd used with the code-breaker: "Tell me what I need to know." Diego lost the replies, however, as he moved with the other men through a gate into the pasture to unsaddle their horses and turn them loose for a few hours grazing. Word filtered through shortly after to eat and rest; they would be moving out at sunrise.

Diego and Jaime spread out their bedrolls near each other under a tall pine, and sat on them munching the trail bars they'd been given. Unlike anything either had ever eaten before, the bars weren't the usual weevil-ridden twice-baked hardtack, but delicious, chewy bars packed with cooked, flattened, and dried grains; chopped nuts and dried fruits; and tiny flakes of smoked jerky meat; all held together with honey. "I could eat these every day!" Jaime grinned cheerfully.

"Good! We do!" one of the nearby partisans called back. _Trust Mendoza to make friends anywhere,_ thought Diego, utterly without jealousy.

Looking down at his outstretched legs in their filthy, tar-smeared and mud-splattered uniform pants, Diego was struck all at once by a happy thought. He grabbed his pack and pulled it to him, opened the top, and began unloading everything onto his bedroll. When he glanced over and caught Jaime's mystified eye, Diego merely tugged on his uniform collar with thumb and forefinger and let it go. Jaime's eyes widened immediately, and without a word, he grabbed his own pack and began unloading it, as well.

And there, in the very bottom of each pack, they were, undisturbed for two long years, where they had been rolled up and shoved their first day at training camp, after they received those blasted uniforms: the dark brown suit (Diego) and rough work clothes (Jaime) they had been wearing the day they were arrested. Most new "recruits" threw their civilian clothes out rather than take up room in their packs with them; others had laughed at Diego and Jaime, but they had each held onto this one reminder of sane civilian life. They shook them out, grinning, checked for rips, and gleefully stripped off their uniforms and put their own clothes back on. They hung a little loosely on Diego, and more so on Jaime, but neither one cared.

Sitting back down with a sigh, Diego crumpled his hated uniform into a rough ball and heaved it towards a nearby wallow, nasty with mud and cowpats – just missing Felipe as he walked up. He dodged quickly to one side as it sailed past his head, then turned back to grin at Diego's "Sorry!"

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Felipe commented cryptically.

"What question?"

"Whether you're planning to return to the Army."

A dozen retorts sprang to Diego's mind, but he settled for a simple, albeit very definitive, "No."

Felipe chuckled as he squatted onto his heels between the ends of their bedrolls.

"It will make returning home a little more difficult," Jaime warned mildly, putting a puzzled look on the Capitán, but Diego jumped in before he could ask.

"Yeah, but we'll be alive to try it." He sighed. "Jaime... Even if we had managed to beat that mutiny charge – or had never gotten to it..." He shook his head. "I would not have lasted another two-three years."

Jaime clucked his tongue in agreement. "Neither would I."

"Why will returning home be harder?" Felipe put in as they paused, his brows furrowed.

"Because unless we have formal discharge papers," Diego answered, holding his right hand up so Felipe could see the branded C on the back as he informed his brother the awful news Jaime had laid on him two years before, "we'll be shot on sight as deserters."

Felipe's eyes got huge as he stared at the brand, while Jaime put in, "And you know de Soto will do that, no question."

"Jesus," Felipe muttered. "They weren't joking." He looked back and forth between the two men. "Is there any other way?"

"Well, if we're wounded badly enough," Jaime replied, "that we can no longer march and fight."

Felipe frowned. "I could shoot you," he offered seriously. When Diego reacted in shock, he clarified with a slight grin, "in the foot or the leg – just bad enough to qualify."

"Do you have a doctor?" Diego asked.

"No."

"Then I'll pass, thanks," he said cheerfully, as though discussing the weather. "I'm not anxious to operate on myself."

"That reminds me. Why didn't you go into the medical corps?"

"Because I never told anyone I had any medical training," Diego said with all the disgust he felt at the suggestion. "I wasn't going to join those butchers. If I work on someone, it will be to try save his life – and not just so he can be sent back to the front."

Felipe nodded, raising a hand for peace. "Well, then, that brings us back to the original question. What are we going to do with you?"

Diego's brows flared, confused now. "I thought we were joining your company."

That netted him a satisfied smile. "I'd like that. But only as volunteers, and only if you're certain." Felipe tipped his head forward for emphasis. "I don't force anyone to join. In fact," he went on, "I was coming over here to apologize to both of you, for dragging you away from the Army without even asking."

"And saving our lives!" Diego shot back. "Thank you."

Jaime snorted. "Our prospects with the Army were not exactly dazzling."

Felipe laughed at him before turning a speculative eye back on his brother. "I take it that it's the fighting that's holding you back."

"Yeah," Diego admitted after a pause. "I just can't..." The idea that he would never have to fire a gun again was the most mesmerizing one he'd ever entertained, and he couldn't imagine himself picking one up again. He shrugged, trying to distill that into a few mild words. "I'm not a guerrillero. I can't be so casual about taking life." His spread hands were a mute apology for any offense.

But Felipe took none, holding up his hand again. "I can make a place for you that would not require you to do any fighting," he offered.

"As your doctor?" Diego asked wryly.

"If you like. But there are _many_ things you could do to help." He studied Diego again for a moment. "But that leads to the most important question of all." He paused for emphasis. "Which side are you on? Spain? Or Mexico?"

Diego sucked in a deep breath, looking away out over the darkening pasture, blowing it out again through pursed lips, trying to answer that question in his mind and finding nothing. Even the pride he used to feel as a hidalgo was missing. Finally, he looked back and shook his head. "I don't even know any more. I've been using _everything I have_ just to _survive..._" He scoffed lightly. "And mostly that meant trying to not even _think._ I don't even know what's been going on." His little brother's brown eyes were warm and sympathetic and non-judgmental. Diego shrugged. "I need some time, to... think." He struggled for words for a moment, surprising even himself with the unusual difficulty, then gave up and just shrugged again. "I need time," he repeated.

"Fair enough. You have it." Felipe nodded, then turned his head towards Jaime, shifting his weight onto one heel and scooting the other foot out for balance. "What about you?" he asked the former garrison sergeant. "What side are _you_ on?"

Jaime stared at Felipe for a moment, puzzled. "I think that's the first time anyone has ever asked for my opinion on anything important," he told him speculatively, then snorted softly at the thought. Felipe merely raised one eyebrow and waited. Diego was suddenly distracted, trying to remember if _he_ had ever asked such a question. He came up blank, and felt the shame of it. _How could I have been so casual about my best friend?_

Finally Jaime spoke again, but it wasn't what Diego expected to hear. "Eighteen years I wore the uniform of the Army of New Spain," he began, staring down at his convict shirt still in his hands. "And I was _proud_ of it." He grinned slightly up at Felipe. "I had gold braid, epaulets, sergeants' bars... even a couple of medals. Shiny brass buttons, that I polished every night." He paused, then his voice went hard and disgusted. "Until de Soto ripped them all off." He lifted the convict shirt with a grimace. "This uniform is _nothing_ to be proud of." And he wadded it up with the pants and flung them after Diego's into the wallow.

Felipe watched them sail past, then turned back to Jaime, eyebrow still raised, silently waiting for him to continue. After a moment, he did, but on another tangent. He turned to Diego. "You were born in the old country, weren't you?"

Diego nodded. "But Father brought me to California as an infant." He could have elaborated, but this was Jaime's moment.

Jaime shook his head, his lips pursed. "Not me. I was born in Guadalajara. My family lived there for generations, mestizos on both sides." He looked back at Felipe. "My father was farmer, dirt poor. Half a dozen children. And he never could get ahead. Every time he put a little by, something always happened." He shrugged. "Crops failed, or Mama had another baby." His face grew hard with the memory. "Or the _tax collectors_, or the _Army requisitioners_," he spat out, "came through and took it all. Ground him into the dirt." He paused again, heavy with memory. "I joined the Army to eat. And for a long time, I believed I was helping to protect people like my father." He shook his head, bitter disillusionment seeping through. "But I wasn't. I was helping to protect the men who ground him into the dirt, year after year."

He looked away, disgusted with himself. Felipe and Diego remained still and silent, waiting. Finally, he looked back up at the Capitán. "What side am I on? I am on the side of farmers, men like my father. I would like to see a world... a country," he corrected himself, "where men like my father can raise their children, and feed them all, every night. Where they can get ahead. Where they can hold their heads high, and be proud of themselves. The salt of the earth. And where tax collectors... or others... don't come through and take and take and take, until there's nothing left."

"That could be Mexico," Felipe said softly.

Jaime nodded slowly. "It could." He sighed, then visibly steeled himself to say what he had evidently been thinking for a long time. "But not as long as the Spanish Army is allowed to tramp around and take whatever they want. Not as long as they're in charge." Diego was as shocked as Jaime himself seemed to be. 

Gently, Felipe corrected him. "Not as long as the Spanish _Empire_ is in charge. Even generals obey orders, and those orders come from above. And tax collectors don't work for the Army, they work for the Empire." He waited, holding Jaime's eyes with his own, until the other man nodded. Then, even more gently, he asked, "Would you fight for such a country? Such an idea? Would you fight to bring it about, if you thought it had a chance?" He paused. "Would you fight for Mexico?"

Diego found he was holding his breath. This was the most masterful show of recruitment he'd ever seen, and he was flabbergasted at who was doing it.

Slowly, Jaime nodded. "Yes. I would fight for that."

"And would you fight for me? Would you help me protect the people in these mountains – even if we're not in Guadalajara?"

A smile claimed Jaime's mouth, then a quiet snort, and he broke eye contact and looked down at his hands for a moment. "Sí, Capitán," he replied, looking back up, but then added immediately, "But I will stay with my friend Don Diego. We will do as _he_ decides."

As Diego was absorbing that astonishing declaration, Felipe added to it by smiling back at Jaime and nodding. "Fair enough. Loyalty is without price, and I would never argue with it." He swiveled back to Diego, swapping his legs out, asking the question with raised eyebrows alone.

Diego blew out a puff and raised his hands. "I need time," is all he said. He couldn't deal with all these revelations, not just then.

"Fair enough," Felipe repeated. "You have it. But that leads us... to tomorrow." He paused. "We're starting a fight in the morning, a battle, with the other company." He raised a hand. "I won't ask you to join. Stay back, stay behind me. Stay out of it. But..." He tipped his head forward again. "If I keep you out of any fighting, will you follow my orders, while you're thinking? Without arguing, or questioning? I don't have time to explain everything."

Diego was smiling. He was no raw recruit, after all. "We're still under your command, Capitán, until we figure out what to do with us." Although he still mentally tripped over the title Capitán, he didn't let it show. That didn't quite seem to be enough, so he added quietly, "I won't argue."

"All right," Felipe nodded, collecting Jaime's agreement as well. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to separate you again tomorrow, like I did today – although we never split. We will tomorrow, and this will make it easier to bring you both along. Jaime, you'll be in Costa's squad; Diego, you're still with me. All right?" The two partners nodded, accepting the necessity. Felipe stood, all commander now. "Then get some sleep. We start at first light."

"How did I know _that_ was coming?" Diego raised his hands sarcastically.

"Admit it," Felipe grinned. "You don't _like_ the Army, but you've gotten used to it."

Diego scowled up at him, searching again for the boy. "I think I liked you better when you couldn't talk."

"Hah! Too late!"


	20. Chapter 20

**TWENTY**

Diego awoke in the predawn gloom the same way he always did nowadays, slitting his eyes open a crack as he lay still, without moving or breathing deeply, so as not to attract any possible attention as he got his bearings and remembered where he was. The previous day came flooding back, with all its mad ups and downs and crazy revelations. _Felipe, El Halcón. I'm alive, out of the Army, and have apparently joined the partisans. Wow._

Sounds reached his ears then, and he strained to catch them. Two men were talking, very low, not far away. He happened to be lying on his left side, facing east; the sky across the valley was just beginning to become a little less dark. Tilting his head down slightly, he saw two silhouettes against the dark grey, just as he caught enough of the voices to recognize their owners: Felipe and Costa were apparently discussing the day's battle plans.

Costa's voice came just a bit clearer then, as if he had turned to glance behind him at the sleeping men nearby: Diego and Jaime. "What about those two?" he asked.

"Same as yesterday," Felipe answered. "Diego is with me, Jaime with you. Put him with a partner, and look after him."

"Will he fight?"

There was a long pause. "Yes," Felipe said slowly. "I think he will. But he has to come to it. Don't push him."

Costa sighed. "All my men are teamed up, and I won't break them apart. I'll keep him with me."

"That will work." There was a pause, then Felipe said encouragingly, "He's a good man, Costa. Give him time."

Costa turned again – Diego realized he could see him a touch more clearly now. He made sure his eyes were slitted too small to be seen open. "Is he really your brother?" he asked, obviously befuddled, hooking a thumb towards Diego.

There was another long pause, as Felipe drew in a long breath. "No," he said. "Not officially." _Yes, I am,_ thought Diego, but he remained still, listening. "He found me after the massacre, took me in, raised me... there was talk of adoption, but nothing ever came of it. Still..." Felipe shrugged. "That's how I think of him." Costa grunted.

The eastern horizon was continuing to lighten. "Well," Felipe said at last. "Dawn approaches. Come on, let's get this gypsy caravan on the road." They didn't move away, however, turning towards each other instead. Hands reached out and clasped each other's forearms, an obviously deeply-ingrained little ritual. "See you on the other side," Felipe said.

"I'll be there," Costa replied.

"So will I. Vaya con Díos, old man."

"Vaya con Díos, pup."

Felipe snorted as they dropped hands, and playfully yipped – very softly – like a puppy. Then he pursed his lips – Diego could see his face clearly now – and began a low, warbling whistle, very softly at first but rapidly increasing in both volume and pitch. It was the perfect wake-up signal; piercing dreams without giving the dreamers heart attacks. "Up, up, up!" Felipe added. "Get up, wake up, come on! Let's get moving!" All over the meadow, men began stirring, tossing back blankets and sitting up. "Che, Bonita!" he called to the two company dogs, stretching now beside their waking masters. "Go round up the horses!' The dogs bounded away with low barks while Felipe added a carrying whistle, calling the horses up.

Looking around, Felipe stepped over to Diego, who still hadn't moved. "Diego! Wake up!"

Diego rolled over onto his back, messing with Felipe. "Just five more minutes, Father," he pleaded sleepily.

Felipe took a deep, contemplative sniff. "I need to piss," he decided, and began fussing with his pants buttons.

Diego's eyes flew open and he stared up at his brother looming directly over him. "You wouldn't dare," he said menacingly.

Felipe paused and smirked down. "You sure about that?" he prodded.

Diego thought for approximately half a second. "I'm up!" he declared, flinging back the blanket. Felipe snickered as he redid the buttons.

Twenty minutes later, the horses were saddled, the weapons checked and loaded, and the men gathered around Felipe and Costa for orders. Felipe told them they were splitting into squads for the day; Costa's squad was moving up the ridge they were on to the head of the valley, while his own would sneak across and move to the other side of the canyon opening to await the Spanish company. Those were expected to arrive mid-morning, from the reports of the spies sent out the day before by the alcalde of Santa Blanca and relayed to the Capitán by Cortez. "The usual orders," Felipe added cryptically. "Drop the wolves; let the dogs go." Diego and Jaime shared a glance and shrugged. They'd find out later. "Stay with your partners at all times. If all goes well, we'll meet at Santa Blanca's plaza afterwards. If not, we meet at the Bishop." Heads nodded all around. "Any questions?" There were none.

Felipe turned to Cortez a few feet away and said simply, "You're out. Go protect your village. Get back to the valley when you can." Cortez took a deep breath and nodded. "Chuy, are you with him?" Felipe asked the other man, who nodded as well, as silent as he always seemed to be. "Then go, my sons. Do good things."

"Vaya con Díos, Capitán," both men replied, and Felipe gave it back, then they turned to mount their horses, shaking hands with a few of their compadres on the way. _That must be their ritual parting words_, Diego realized. He smiled to himself. _I can think of much worse._ He and Jaime shared a quick, wordless handshake.

With the same words, Capitán Halcón sent the rest of his company to their horses, and they moved out.

* * *

"Dogs and wolves?" Diego asked Felipe an hour later. They were a few hundred yards up on the side of the valley, crouched behind some scattered boulders, just within the tree line. A quarter mile to their right, the valley narrowed to a canyon, the Rio Trenzado tumbling out over more boulders and into its more sedate bed towards Santa Blanca in the distance. _There'd be good fishing down there in those eddies,_ he thought idly, adjusting his new scabbard to sit more comfortably on his belt – Felipe had handed him his former commander's sheathed sword without a word as they dismounted, then tossed his hawk up into the sky to go hunting, out of any danger. "He'll find me later," he shrugged. "He always does."

Felipe glanced at Diego now, puzzled at the question, then remembered. "Mexican conscripts; Spanish officers," he replied cryptically. He checked out their line again; spread apart on either side were the men of his squad, several yards apart, waiting at rest beneath the pines, horses tethered a few yards behind each man. Diego could just make out signs of Costa's squad in the same positions on the other side of the valley, and wondered which hidden man was Mendoza.

He glanced again at the Capitán, hiding a tiny smile. "You're getting cocky," he informed him.

Now Felipe's look was outraged. "You should talk, Zorro." He shook his head. "Just because we don't discuss failure to death doesn't mean we don't plan for it. That's why we set up the rendezvous at the Bishop – which you don't know," he added quickly, snapping his fingers as it hit him. Swiveling around on his heels, he gestured diagonally up the mountain behind them. "It's a tall rock column, about a hundred feet high, separated from the cliff, about due south of this point on the far side of the valley beyond that mountain." He swept his pointing finger up past the double peaks. "There are passes on either side of the peaks, and another one in between – though I really don't recommend that one unless you're desperate. And dozens of paths and roads that lead up to them. Just get to the top and look south; you'll see it."

Diego nodded. "Si, Capitán."

Just then, a whispered hiss came down the line, and Felipe passed it on. There was movement on the road beside the river. Out of the shadows came an entire company, marching smartly four abreast along the road, while out in front their commander proudly trotted his horse beneath the company banners. The partisans all held their breath, melting into the shadows, as the company came. Diego watched Felipe settle, snaking the barrel of his rifle over the top of the boulder, and wait. And wait.

He didn't give the signal until the last rank of men had marched out of the trees below and into the sunshine. Then, his piercing hawk's scream split the air, followed a second later by a concentrated volley of rifle fire from both tree lines. A short pause while the partisans reloaded, and then more ragged volleys devolved into continuous fire "at will", without the need for more signals.

Diego watched the commander fall from his horse – no, he didn't fall, he dove the second he heard the whistled signal, hit the ground rolling, and came up again, shouting orders. The foot soldiers instantly divided, the two columns on each side making a sharp ninety-degree turn outwards and halting. Each outside column – now front rank – knelt, the rear remained standing, and they began methodically returning fire up the hills to either side, even as many of their comrades fell from partisan bullets.

_They had been expecting this attack,_ Diego thought. _But how?_

And then he saw it. More movement from the trees, and a troop of horses began pouring out of the shadows, dividing in two like the foot soldiers, and riding hard at angles up the slopes directly towards both squads of partisans.

"_CAVALRY!" _Diego yelled as loud as he could. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Felipe jerk up, take one quick look, and leap to his feet even as he sent another piercing whistle, this one starting high but rapidly falling. It was a retreat. As one, the squad scrambled to their feet and ran for their horses. As he mounted his gelding, Diego stopped and peered across the valley, seeing movement there, too.

"They're going!" Felipe panted at him. "Costa's no fool!" The Capitán dug his heels into Diablo's flanks, hauling him around and launching the stallion up the slope through the trees. Diego pounded after, hearing many other horses on either side as they fought to converge into a single unit.

The cavalry were shooting their rifles as they came, and inevitably, one of them found a target. One of Felipe's partisans, the last man in line, screamed and dropped from his horse, which kept running flat out. The next man, apparently the first's partner, yelled a name, pulling his horse around – and then he was dropped, too. Felipe and several others swore bitterly, but couldn't risk turning back; the cavalry was almost on them already. They kept going.

After a few heart-pounding minutes, they gained the top of the ridgeline, and Felipe turned them right, galloping southwest along the rim. And now it turned into a race as the cavalry pounded after them. The partisans on their tough mountain horses, and knowing the terrain better, had pulled away slightly up the slope, but now the cavalry's experienced horses had their wind, and hung onto their trail as if on ropes, neither gaining nor falling behind. Bullets came zinging after them now and again, more to let the guerrilleros know their pursuers were still there than expecting any real damage.

Felipe looked back at intervals, gauging their relative speeds, and finally swore heavily. They wouldn't be able to stop and make a stand. _"Scatter!"_ he yelled, following with a rapidly-repeating two-tone whistle. _"Diego, stay with me!"_ he added as the other partisans peeled off in twos, going up and down the slope as impulse hit. Glancing back again, Diego and Felipe saw the cavalry likewise split, with two horsemen following each pair of partisans.

But at least six were still behind the two of them.

"They're after _you!"_ Diego yelled at Felipe. "You're marked!"

"Then _go!"_ came the reply. "Get to the Bishop! I'll lead them off!"

Diego's eyes bugged out. _"No! _I'm not leaving you!"

Felipe's face was a study in contradiction, furious and grateful both. "Then I hope that horse can keep up!" he snarled. He pulled on Diablo's left rein again, taking him off the roadway and angling up through the meadow directly towards the twin peaks looming far overhead. Tucking his feet back, Felipe leaned over Diablo's neck and clung like a burr, loosing the reins to give the magnificent stallion his head. Diego did his best to follow suit, although with his larger (older) frame, he couldn't quite get that low.

"_Up the mountain!"_ he heard Felipe yell to his horse. _"Fly, Diablo, FLY!"_


	21. Chapter 21

**TWENTY-ONE**

Up through meadows and forest they pounded, Diego on his big, raw-boned gelding a yard behind Felipe on the Andalusian Diablo, half a dozen Army cavalry clinging to their trail. The two men hung tight, low over their horses' necks, ducking under sweeping branches as they cut as close to the tree trunks as they dared, hoping to gain a second on their pursuers, or have them swept off their mounts – either one would do.

Diego's horse proved that day that he had the heart, the stamina... but he wasn't quite Diablo's equal. Diego watched in horror as Felipe very slowly pulled ahead, a foot at a time. He saw Felipe glance back every few seconds, keeping track, but he didn't dare look back himself for fear of missing a beat and getting tangled up in that wild ride.

And then he heard it. Hoofbeats behind him. One soldier had pulled ahead, was inching closer to Diego himself. Closing his ears as best he could, he lay even lower, urging his horse to go faster, faster. No more shots were fired; the soldiers must have all emptied their guns on the ridge below.

Up ahead, past the edge of the trees close on either side of their path, he saw a line cutting across the meadow above – a narrow dirt road was about to intersect their path at a sharp angle. Diablo burst from the trees and surged upwards, while Felipe shifted on his back, doing something with his far, right arm. With a final mighty leap, Diablo sprang over the bank and onto the road, and Felipe pulled on his rein as he sat up, bringing the horse around to the left into an astonishing pirouette. Diego's heart stopped for a moment, seeing Zorro's stallion rearing in silhouette as so many others must have done over the years.

And then he saw Felipe's rifle balanced on his left arm, and Felipe yelled "Down!" even as he fired while Diablo stayed upright. Diego ducked lower, almost feeling the bullet zing past his head, and heard the horse so close behind him scream and tumble.

As Diablo dropped to all fours again, Diego's horse sprang over the bank to join him. Felipe didn't wait, but dug in his heels to send Diablo flying ahead up the road to their left, Diego a beat behind. He spared a glance back and smiled grimly: the bullet must have hit his pursuer's horse, as it had gone down, flinging its rider from the saddle and sprawling now across the path. The other cavalrymen would be checked by it, albeit briefly. The entire maneuver had been worthy of Zorro himself, and Diego was both astonished and incredibly proud of Felipe for how neatly he had pulled it off.

They were nearing the saddle between the peaks at last, but their horses were slowing perceptibly, losing strength in the thinning air after that long mad climb. "Diego!" Felipe yelled. "We're going to have to make a stand! The other side is an open switchback, no cover!"

Diego nodded. "Call it!"

And a few moments later, he did, as he spied a dip in the ground surrounded by boulders, near the top of a rock-strewn slope. They pulled their horses to a stop, sides heaving, pulled off all their weapons and ammunition, and sent the horses beyond the dip to a shallow, protected arroyo.

"Swap rifles!" Felipe called, tossing Diego the one he had fired below and receiving Diego's still-loaded one in return. "Reload for me!" he added, as he threw himself down on the ground to peer downslope between two boulders. Diego said nothing as he quickly set to work.

"Here they come! They're on foot." Felipe fired off a shot and grinned. "One down, four left." Looking back, he swapped rifles with Diego. A few seconds later, he traded shots with another. "Two down, three left." Diego spared a thought for how good a marksman his brother was proving to be, shooting downslope at that distance. But then Felipe swore. "Another! Four left."

Another shot with no result. "Come on, come on, shoot back!" Felipe murmured. "I don't fancy being a fish in a barrel when you get here." A second later, he ducked away from a ricochet – although it was several feet off the mark. "Thank you!"

He got off a few more shots, but made no more hits; apparently the soldiers were getting smarter, moving from boulder to boulder. Then, "They're coming! It's going to be hand-to-hand in a minute!" He sounded worried. He took a second to glance at his brother. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah!" Diego shot back, a little nonplussed – then realized what he was asking. "I'm fine with defending myself, Felipe. Don't worry."

"Good to know," Felipe returned casually, then added, "Sorry." No time for any more; the dismounted soldiers were only yards away. "Back to back!" he cried.

Diego nodded, tossing the loaded rifle and ammunition pouch towards the arroyo, and drawing his sword in his right hand, and pistol in his left as he moved to the center of their little ring to make their last stand, back to back with his younger brother. Both of them got off a shot with their pistols, but Diego missed his awkward left-handed shot, as another soldier leapt at him with sword drawn at the same moment. He could spare no thought then but trying to let his muscles remember how to fight with a sword four years after he had last put Zorro's blade down; parry, thrust, slash, strike, again. He felt Felipe move around behind him, fighting against his own opponents, and for the first time in his swordfighting career knew the warmth of knowing no one would get to him through his partner.

Time passed in a blur of blades, but the soldiers went down one by one, until all at once Diego and Felipe were both whirling around, looking wildly for any more opponents. Four bodies lay at their feet. Felipe ran to the lip of their bowl and looked out, all around. All was silence. Both men turned at the same moment to check their horses, who were now munching unconcerned on the sparse greenery of that altitude. Panting, grins spreading, the two brothers stared at each other in relief, as their sword tips at last sank to the ground.

A wave of exhaustion suddenly swamped Diego, and he took a step sideways and sank gratefully onto one of the many thigh-high boulders, letting his sword drop from his hand onto the ground – he'd apparently thrown the pistol away unthinkingly after shooting it. He stared around at the bodies. "How the hell did I get here?" he asked of nobody, bewildered at the turns his life had taken.

Felipe came and sat beside him, brows furrowed. "We still make a good team, eh?"

"Except I think our roles have reversed."

Felipe shrugged, giving him the point.

"And I'm sorry, but I don't want to be here." The words were wrenched out of Diego, unknowing what he was about to say until he said it.

Felipe dropped his sword and dagger on the ground, checked his hands for blood, and rubbed his face. "I know. This isn't your world. It's mine." He looked around, almost murmuring, "Full of blood, and death, and war." He looked back at Diego, his eyes and voice full of anguish. "But I'm fighting for your world, too. Can't you see that?"

"_My_ world?"

"The one you're trying to create. With... justice and... fairness and... laws that apply to everyone." His suddenly oddly halting speech caught Diego's attention for a moment before the meaning did.

Then he shook his head, trying to determine if Felipe was being sarcastic. "And is there something wrong with that?" he asked sharply.

"No! It's just that... Like Jaime said last night, it can't happen until the Army, and the Empire, are gone."

"The Empire again," Diego began derisively, but Felipe cut him off, angry now.

"Yes, the Empire! I know you're proud of it, proud to be part of it, of the laws and the order!" He paused. "But what you can't seem to see is how that order keeps people down. Hidalgos on top, mestizos on the bottom, and indios... indios nowhere! Nobody!" Diego simply stared at him, nonplussed. Felipe took a deep breath and plowed on. "You thought the alcaldes, Ramone and de Soto, were _mistakes_, that could be fixed if only the right people in Spain knew about it – you told me that!" He shook his head. "But they weren't! They weren't ever _fixed_ – because they weren't _mistakes._ They were doing _exactly_ what the King and his ministers _wanted_ them to do. The same things every alcalde, every governor-general, every encomendero has done since the conquest – that _you_ taught me about. They grind those below them into the dirt, while they rise up and become rich. There is one law for the rich, and another law for everyone else. And that is _not going to change_, as long as the Empire is in control of Mexico."

_Where in the world had all these radical ideas come from?_ Even if he had thought some of them in the past, hearing them echoed from Felipe's lips stung Diego badly. He struck out verbally, seizing on the only thing he could think of at the moment: that Felipe had benefited from the system he was deriding. "You're Spanish yourself!"

Felipe snorted. "No, I'm not! I'm Italian!"

_Oh, now this is nonsense._ "What?"

Felipe stared hard at the ground for a moment, then snapped his fingers with a grimace. When he looked back at Diego with a triumphant look, he let loose a long string of words that Diego only vaguely recognized as Italian, having no idea what they meant, no chance of grasping any of them mentally to translate. Felipe snickered at the look of astonishment on his face, then repeated the stare and finger snap before going on in Spanish. "I have no memory of learning it, and I sure as hell never learned it from you. I _had _to have learned it before the massacre. It _had_ to have been my first language. What's more... when I got my hearing back, I had _no idea_ what _anyone_ was saying. I had to teach myself Spanish, while you were at the University!"

A small part of Diego was grappling with the fact of the boy teaching himself an entire language, without being able to actually speak it. Before he could come up with anything sensible to say, though, Felipe charged back to his former point.

"I don't know whether we lived in Marenga, or were just passing through, but my parents – or whoever – were killed along with everyone else in the village, by the Army of New Spain, just for being there!"

"You don't know that for certain," Diego began, trying to be reasonable, but again was cut off.

"_Yes, I do!"_ Suddenly Felipe sprang to his feet, took two steps away, then whirled back to Diego, absolutely, coldly furious. _There it is,_ Diego thought: the old black fury he had caught on the young Felipe's unguarded face at times. "It was the Twenty-Fifth Zaragoza Lancer Battalion, commanded by Colonel Miguel Jesus de Villanueva y Marques!" He spat out the names with exaggerated precision. "He was sent _by the crown_ to put down a small rebellion, and when he couldn't find the ones responsible, he decided to simply kill everyone in the nearest town – which happened to be Marenga – as an _example!_ They ringed the town and started firing. He... killed... _everyone_... every man... woman... and child... with artillery... mortars... and rifles." The thrice repeated, rhythmic triplets seemed to triple the horror, as well. "Everyone except one: me! I survived because I had been hidden!" He stopped suddenly, breathing hard, before wrenching his voice back down to its usual volume. "And then the next day, you came along and found me, and took me home. You never looked into it, never found out the details, but _I did!"_

Diego could do nothing but stare transfixed at this furious stranger.

Felipe made himself look around for a moment, still breathing hard, then turned back. "I'm Italian by birth, as far as I can figure out. But I'm Mexican by choice. Why? Because when I discovered what I was, I could have left. I could have made my way to Italy, and searched for... something familiar. Some bit of family, somehow. But I didn't. I stayed. Why?" he asked again. Diego was startled to see tears come to his brother's eyes, and his voice cracked a bit. "Because I believe in your world, too. That's why I'm fighting for it. I believe Mexico could _be_ that world. But _not_..." he paused for emphasis, "while the Spanish Empire is in control, directing men like Colonel Marques, and Alcalde de Soto. And I'm sorry. I am really, truly sorry, but they are not going to leave, until it costs them too much blood to stay. That's the way of empires and armies. _You_ taught me _that_, too, with your history lessons. The only sure way to get an army to leave, is by making the cost of staying too high."

Again, he looked around, taking a deep breath, and continuing to breath deliberately after each sentence. He pointed down at the dead men around their feet. "I have spilled my share of that blood, God knows, and I will continue to do so. And yes, it bothers me. Don't ever think it doesn't. Don't ever think they don't haunt me in the night, the men I've killed. And don't think I don't how many that is. I do. I know the number, although I'll never say it. They are my cross to bear. The fact that I picked that cross up _knowingly_ and _willingly_ does not make it any lighter. But I _did_ pick it up. And I will continue to carry it, until it is over, and Mexico is free... or until I am dead."

With that, Felipe turned around, to stare out over the valley so far below – but not before Diego saw that a tear had indeed streaked down his cheek. And it was then, as he sat staring at the young man's back – so familiar, even now; slender and straight and strong, now with a ponytail hanging down between his shoulder blades – it was then that it all fell together and crystallized.

This _was_ the same boy he had known so well; the same fire, and sharp intelligence, and barely-contained energy; the same deep longing to know who he was, to _belong_ somewhere, to be a part of something larger than himself. He had found it, there in Los Angeles, as part of Zorro's enterprise, and part of the de la Vega family, albeit unofficially. And when his entire world had been ripped away in a moment – so he believed – he had searched desperately for something to replace it. And he had found it, here with the partisans and the Revolution. His anger now wasn't aimed at Diego, it was at the fate that had cheated him and sent him running from home. And at the conflict he was now inevitably feeling, trying to justify himself to himself, and to his brother.

And the hell of it was, when he laid out his goals as he had done, Diego couldn't argue with them, even though he desperately wanted to. He wanted to take his boy home, away from all this monstrous blood and death – but he couldn't even _think_ properly, let alone string two persuasive sentences together, as Felipe himself had been doing the night before, recruiting Jaime.

He hadn't always been this way, he remembered ruefully. He hadn't always felt as though his brain was stuffed with glue. He felt like he was peering out from a deep, dark cave, straining to see his former self in the distance, out on the sunlit plain, riding and laughing.

_What happened to that man in the mask,_ he wondered, _with his silver sword, and his golden tongue, and his zest for life?_

_Where had he gone?_


	22. Chapter 22

**TWENTY-TWO**

Sitting there on the boulder, thinking of everything he had lost – everything Felipe had lost – and feeling the gulf between them like a chasm, Diego gave a low, bitter laugh. When his brother whirled angrily around, Diego threw up his hands to forestall him. "I'm laughing at myself, not you." As puzzlement joined the anger on Felipe's face, Diego turned his palms up in a helpless gesture and shook his head. "Like I said last night... I've been using everything I have just to survive. I'm just a shell of a man, just following orders. I feel like my brain has been tied into knots." Another bitter snort. "And you just put about six heavy, complicated things on me at once... and I can't even grapple properly with any one of them, let alone all six. I'm sorry."

Felipe's face had gone from angry to contrite. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I'm all wound up, like a... like an artillery shell with the fuse lit. But I shouldn't exploded on you like that. I'm sorry," he repeated, meaning it.

"I just need some time," Diego pleaded.

"You _have_ it. Now that this is done – " Felipe broke off as his voice cracked, and he looked away for a minute to get himself under control. Diego saw the anguish on his face, and realized again how young the partisan Capitán still was. He wasn't hardened to the loss of his men, or even to the loss of life on the other side. With a deep sniff, he continued. "After this, we'll be heading home – _my_ home – I _do_ have one," he added with a tiny proud smile, mercurial as always, "and you can take all the time you need. Sit in the sun all day, eat, drink. Relax. Untie those knots. And we'll talk... as much as you want." The smile had broadened, and Diego couldn't help but smile back.

"I'd like that. I find I like hearing your voice – now that you have one," he teased.

Felipe's smile broadened still further, joined by a chuckle. He drew it out, obviously enjoying some new thought. "Aaaaand..." He left it there, waiting for Diego.

Diego added a suspicious gleam to his face, cocking his head. Finally he gave in, eyebrows raised. "And?"

Felipe now laughed openly, waiting a few more beats. "Aaand... You can meet my wife," he ended proudly, bringing his left hand up beside his face, palm in, to show Diego what he had missed up to that point: a wedding ring.

Astonishment hit his brother like the proverbial bucket of cold water. "You're _married?"_ As Felipe nodded, Diego leapt up from his boulder and took the three steps up to him, grabbing his shoulders with a little shake. "Felipe, that's _fantastic! Congratulations!_ What's her name?" he managed to ask.

"Marianna," was the reply. "You will _love_ her – she's from the old country, and a lady to the core." His admiration for his wife shown in his eyes.

"Then what's she doing with you?" Diego teased, feeling a bit more like himself.

Felipe laughed, not at all offended, and came back immediately. "I have _no_ idea!"

Diego pulled him into a hug then, repeating the congratulations and thank yous. When they separated, Felipe pointed out impishly, "Well, at least it got you off of that rock." The immediate situation broke back in again, and the joy dribbled away a bit. "But first... we need to get to the Bishop and see if I have any men left." The two that had fallen on the ridgeline below loomed in both their minds.

"I'm sure you do – _many _men," Diego assured him.

Felipe nodded, appreciating the comfort, anyway, then turned to look and whistle at their two horses, munching away. "You two ready?"

Diego's horse didn't even lift his head. Diablo did, a scant six inches, and grumbled once, ears back, before lowering it again.

"I'd take that as a 'no'," Diego said blandly, and Felipe snorted.

"All _right_," he managed a stern note back to Diablo. "Five minutes then." The horse flicked his ears disdainfully and went on tearing grass.

Felipe stepped back to the rock they'd been sitting on and stooped to pick up his sword and dagger. He glanced at Diego. "Reload our guns please?" Diego nodded and went around to collect them where they'd been tossed such a short time before. Hearing Felipe sigh, he glanced back to see the younger man looking at the four corpses. He couldn't read his expression.

"I'm sorry," the Capitán said softly to the dead men. Then his face hardened. "But you were sent to _kill_ me. And you tracked me down... like a pack of wolves on their prey. Why?" He looked at Diego then. "Do you think there's a price on my head now?" The question wasn't proud, but disgusted.

"Could be," Diego said unhelpfully. "I haven't heard of one, but I haven't really been paying attention." Unable to help himself, he went further. "But you've definitely set yourself up as their enemy."

"No, I haven't," Felipe shot back with disdain and real anger. "They set themselves up as _mine_, when I was _seven years old."_

_All those years when I thought he had forgotten the massacre, even if he had no real, direct memories, it was always there,_ Diego realized. No doubt that was the cause of that black fury. He bent back over the rifle he was reloading.

Hearing a thump a moment later, he looked up again, and watched as Felipe stood up with one of the men's swords and his red jacket. Felipe took them to the lip of their little dip, chose the highest point overlooking the slope below, knelt down, slipped the sword through the sleeve, and jammed the point into the ground as hard as he could, leaving the rest of the jacket to flap idly in the breeze. He pulled out a rawhide string and tied it and a feather from his pouch around the hilt, securing the jacket to the top as well. "It's not bragging," he said without looking. "It's a signal, to those who live below."

Understanding dawned. "The bargain they make," Diego murmured, and Felipe nodded. The peasants would see the red jacket, come to investigate, collect what they could, and bury the dead.

As Felipe stood up from the sword, glancing down the slope, he suddenly stopped and watched something out of Diego's line of sight. A moment later, he held out his right arm before him – and the hawk swooped up and landed. "Where have you been, eh?" his master asked, stroking the breast feathers with a finger as he had done before. "You missed all the excitement." He glanced down the hill again. "Any soldiers left down there?"

"Will he tell you?" Diego was really curious.

Felipe snorted and turned to shake his head at Diego. "Not really, no. It's more a matter of how calm he is – and whether I hear anyone shooting at him."

A minute later, they were ready. "Can we go now?" Felipe asked Diablo cheekily. This time the horse lifted his head and stepped to his master. "Thank you." As the two men quickly checked their mounts' tack, Felipe said, "That horse needs a name. You thought of one yet?"

Diego shook his head. "I don't remember what Gallegos called him, either." He looked over the big chestnut. "Rojo," he pronounced. A simple name seemed to fit.

"Good enough," said Felipe.

* * *

Half an hour later, they topped out on the high pass between the twin peaks. "Whoa!" Diego cried – only half to his horse, pulling Rojo to a stop as he gaped at the magnificent scenery on display: rank after rank of mountains, with cliffs and waterfalls, covered with a carpet of green trees, marching off into the hazy distance.

"Welcome to my mountains!" Felipe said with a grin.

"That is... _breathtaking!"_ his brother breathed.

"That it is. Look," he went on, pointing south into the next valley. "There's the Bishop." The rock spire, detached from it's mother cliff face, looked like a needle from that distance.

"I see it. Any sign of your men?" Diego suppressed a sudden stab of fear and worry for Jaime. There was nothing he could do but wait and find out.

Felipe shook his head with a grimace. "No. It's too far away – and they're all too smart. They'll stay hidden."

"How do we get there?"

"The path starts over here," Felipe nudged Diablo to lead the way to the lip of the pass. Before they got another thirty feet, though, they both suddenly pulled their horses to a stop. _"Fuck!"_ was all Felipe could say.

Both men sat and stared down... and down... and down. The path – a bare switchback, like Felipe had said – went down a slope that was tilted at least sixty degrees.

"I thought you had come this way before!" Diego accused.

Felipe nodded. "Up! Not down! It looks much different from that angle." He swore again.

Diego shook his head. "I am not riding this horse down that path," he said flatly. "We're going to have to get off and lead them."

"It's gonna take hours," Felipe moaned. "It must be five miles down to the trees," where, presumably, the ground began to slope more gently.

"How long would it take us to go back down and take the southern pass?"

"Hours..." was the snorting reply. "Probably a little longer all together." He growled, then rolled his head. "What do you think, Diablo? Which way?"

Diablo had no second thoughts. He blew a disgusted snort, then decisively turned around to go back down the path they had just ascended. Felipe nodded, letting him go. "I agree. Fuck that."

"Well, at least you're smart enough to listen to the horse," Diego commented as he pulled Rojo aside to let the others pass.

"Since he's smarter than most men I've known – present company excluded," Felipe hurriedly added, "yes, I do. Often."

"Thank you!"

"Keep an eye out for stragglers," the Capitán warned. "Ours or theirs."

Diego nodded. "At least going this way you'll be able to sweep up your own."


	23. Chapter 23

**TWENTY-THREE**

In just a few minutes, Felipe and Diego were once more traversing the slope where they had made their final stand together. Both of them avoided looking at the dip hiding the four bodies they knew were there. Halfway down to the trees, however, Felipe stopped his horse and sighed, then glanced at his brother and tipped his head towards the movement in the shadows. "Let's take along their horses. We could use them. And I don't want to leave them if they're tethered – it might be days before anyone sees that signal."

Diego nodded, and the two of them angled through the field of boulders towards the horses they could now see. They were indeed tethered. They were just about fifty feet away when Felipe, rounding one very large rock, suddenly pulled Diablo to a stop and drew his pistol in one smooth motion, pointing it at something Diego couldn't see. Another step and there it was: one of the soldiers who Felipe had shot on the slope such a short time before had apparently crawled back down. He was sitting against a rock, holding his rifle with both shaking hands – but hadn't managed to aim it.

"Drop the gun!" the Capitán growled, and the soldier instantly complied, tossing it beyond his own feet and raising his hands above his head.

"It's empty," he said fearfully.

"I know," Felipe snarled. "You shot it at me."

As Diablo shifted his feet, turning slightly towards the soldier, that man's eyes widened, only then taking in the hawk on Felipe's far shoulder. "You are El Halcón?"

"That's right. Do you have a pistol?" The soldier shook his head. "Take out your knife and toss it over here."

The now terrified man complied quickly with hands that were shaking even more, pleading again, "Please, Señor..."

Diego was staring at his brother in disbelief. Felipe's eyes were brown flints in a stony face. Who was this lethal stranger? Glancing at the soldier again, Diego saw that one of his thighs was a bloody mess, and he had left a trail of blood amid the crushed grass as he slid down the slope to that point.

"Felipe," Diego said softly, pleading. "He's a conscript." The man's pants had the telltale white stripe down the outer seams.

"I see it." Diego watched Felipe's profile as he raked the soldier with an appraising glance. "Where are you from?"

"San Antonio. In Tejas."

"Where is that?"

"Northeast, near the United States," Diego supplied, and the soldier nodded.

"How long was your term?"

"Two years, Señor."

"And how long had you served?"

The soldier snorted softly. "Four months," came the bitter reply.

Felipe was still covering him with his pistol. "You're lucky," he said. "That wound is bad enough to get you an early discharge. So tell me. If we bind it up, and set you on your horse, which direction will you go?"

"Home," came the whispered, desperate reply. "Please, Señor. I just want to go home, to my family."

A moment longer, then Felipe nodded. "Good answer," he said with a wolfish smile. "Because I do not take prisoners. Diego," Felipe at last let his pistol drift down, nodding at the man. "See what you can do for him, please? - Short of taking out the bullet." It took Diego another minute to recover himself, staring at his brother as Felipe dismounted and picked up the discarded weapons, putting them well out of reach. Felipe then had the man take off his jacket, remove all insignia, turn it inside out, then put it back on, signaling that he was no longer in the Army. At last Diego also got down and stepped over to the now former soldier, squatted down, and began examining the wound. Making sure Diego was well set, Felipe walked down to untie the six horses, tether them together, and brought them up the slope.

"You'll live," Diego told the soldier as he finished tying the man's own spare shirt around the wounded thigh. "And if you keep this wound clean, and let it heal, you should even keep the leg. There's no bullet to take out – it went straight through. But he's lost a lot of blood," he added to Felipe.

They got him onto his own horse, but he was already nearly fainting. "He can't go far," Diego said grimly, and Felipe nodded.

"We'll take him to the first house we pass," he said. "They'll take care of him until he can start for home."

The soldier was mightily surprised at that. "Why would they do that? I have no money."

Felipe barked a laugh. "Money doesn't mean much up here, Señor. They will do it because you are no longer a Spanish soldier. You are just another Mexican, trying to get home. As for payment – if they come in with things that belonged to your former compadres," he nodded up the slope, "you do not see them. They will bury the men in return." The soldier nodded, understanding. Felipe then brought out a short rope. "I'm going to tie you on your horse, Señor, only so you don't fall off."

* * *

As he predicted, the sheepherders in the first house they found, an hour down the mountain, were willing to take in the former soldier and nurse him until he could ride off – in exchange for one of the spare horses Diego was leading. Felipe also told them of the battle scene above, and a few minutes later the two rode off, each leading two spare horses with saddles, tack, and saddlebags.

As Felipe and Diego were mounting up again, Felipe stopped, took a deep breath and blew it out, and swung Diablo around so that he faced his brother a foot away. "Just so we understand each other," he began in a low voice, his face harsh and unreadable, "I was _not_ going to shoot him – not unless he attacked again. I was making sure of him, before we let him go. Because I do _not_ take prisoners... but neither do I shoot unarmed men who have surrendered." He paused, gauging Diego's reaction. "Something you might be glad about, if you think about it. Because otherwise, my men would have finished you and Jaime off, before we even realized who you were."

Diego was taken aback. He slowly nodded. "I'm sorry. I don't know you are any more," he added, shaking his head. "I don't know who this... El Halcón... is. Then again," now rueful, "I'm not sure who _I_ am anymore, either."

When he looked back at Felipe, the other man now had a half-smile tugging on one corner of his mouth. "Then what do you say we fix that. Hm?"

Now Diego caught the half-smile. "I'd like that." He held out his hand, a little tentatively. Felipe must have caught the hesitancy, because he shot Diego a disappointed look, reached out, and grabbed Diego's forearm instead. A shake and a smile of understanding, then Felipe jerked his head towards the path.

"Let's go."

* * *

They did indeed "scoop up" two of Felipe's guerrilleros just after they crossed the southern pass. Sanchez, the first man Diego had met the day before, had had his horse shot out from under him, and his partner's horse couldn't carry both of them, so they were leading him while making their way to the Bishop on foot. "Lucky for you we have some extras," was Felipe's happy quip.

After that, they made better time across the valley floor, and made it to the makeshift camp in the clearing at the foot of the rock spire just before sunset, Felipe giving the standard "all is well" signal – his right hand, palm down, chopping outward from his chest. The naked relief showing on everyone's face was palpable.

"Diego!" Hearing that familiar voice calling his name, Diego swiveled his head rapidly, a wide smile splitting his face as he saw Jaime walking towards him with a matching smile. He slipped off his horse quickly and the two grasped each other's forearms, reassuring each other quietly they were all right.

Things were not so well a few feet away, as Felipe asked how many were still unaccounted for. "None," was Costa's heavy reply. "You're the last four in. Everyone else was seen to fall."

"How many?" His rough voice caught Diego's attention.

It took Costa a moment to answer. "Six."

"Seven," corrected another fighter, walking up to them.

Costa whirled. "Jorge?" he asked bleakly.

The fighter nodded. "Just a few minutes ago." Diego could now see the still form stretched out on the other side of the clearing.

Felipe swore. "Tell me what happened." One by one the others told him how their comrades had fallen. Felipe was looking as though he felt each blow himself as it was retold. The only saving grace was the numbers of cavalry that had been shot down in return. In the end, it appeared that the soldier he and Diego had released might have been the sole survivor of the cavalry unit.

The Capitán walked slowly over to squat next to the body of Jorge. The silent watchers, standing respectfully back, saw him lay his hand over Jorge's, then say a few words. When he stood again, he directed them to bury their comrade there at the foot of the Bishop. "From now on," he added, "it is Jorge's Column."

The grave was hastily dug with a pair of short shovels extracted from packs. Even Felipe took a turn digging. Then they laid Jorge carefully to rest and covered the body in silence. One of the others stood nearby and intoned a prayer for the dead, his hat in his hands.

At the end, Felipe stood with his head down for many long minutes. His face was terrible when he finally lifted it again and turned to face the company. "Amigos... I have failed you. This whole thing was a trap – a trap for us. I should have seen it. All the way back to the coded orders. It was a trap. I was thinking of... other things."

A dozen feet away, Diego felt his stomach drop. _He_ was the "other thing" that had distracted the young Capitán, and he felt the guilt as heavily.

Some of the men were murmuring denials, but Felipe held up his hand and they stopped. "In the morning, I am riding back to Santa Blanca... To see if... I can help. I am not giving anyone orders," he added quickly as several men drew breath. "Volunteers only. And don't tell me now. Tell me in the morning." He took another breath, then looked around at his men. "And if... you decide you would be better off following someone else, someone who will not lead you into traps... Teñente Costa, or someone else... I won't argue. I can't. Just tell me that in the morning, too, and I'll be on my way." More than one guerrillero took a breath to argue, but Felipe put up a hand again and turned away, reaching for Diablo's reins and leading him into the woods on the far side of the Bishop. They could see him stripping off the saddle and bridle in the starlight, then he wrapped himself in the blanket pulled from behind the saddle and sat heavily against a tree.

Everyone turned back in silence. Many of them looked at Teñente Costa. He glared around the circle. "Don't look at me," he growled, his face mean. "I still follow El Halcón." And he turned on his heel and stalked over to his own tree and sat.

"So do I," said another man standing in the front of the group. Tall and slender, he had an open face and easy smile – on other occasions. Several others nodded.

"I'm sorry," Diego said aloud before he realized. "This was my fault. I distracted him."

"That may be," the first man replied. "But no one here blames you. Having a brother is a good thing."

"But not at this cost. Seven men?"

"That is a high cost. But we are at war, Señor." Others nodded again, agreeing with the outspoken one. He looked around again. "Let's get to sleep, amigos. Dawn comes early." Asking two men to take first watch, he led the general drift to the trees around the clearing.

Diego turned then and began stripping Rojo, then tethered him to a tree. "What is it, amigo?" Jaime had followed.

Diego looked towards the shadow that was Felipe again, then shook his head. "It's like I know him, but I don't. He's changed... so much."

"You have asked for time... more than once. You should give yourself time, too."

* * *

At dawn, Felipe woke, stretched, then stood up. Calling Diablo softly – the stallion hadn't wandered more than a few yards away – he methodically groomed the horse with a brush he pulled out of his saddlebag, then put on the saddle and bridle, studiously ignoring everything else for that space of time. Turning at last, he led the horse back into the clearing.

And stopped, surprised, as every other man was already waiting with his horse, ready to ride, including Diego and Jaime.

"Well?" Costa asked, his voice rough. "Let's get going to Santa Blanca."

"All of you?" Felipe was astonished. He looked around at their nodding, grinning heads.

"And before you ask, we follow El Halcón," Costa added. "All of us."

Felipe's eyes fell on Diego and Jaime, then. They both nodded wordlessly.

They could see him swallow hard. "All right," he finally managed. "Mount up. Let's go."

* * *

Nearing noon, the partisan company topped out on the ridge overlooking the valley holding Santa Blanca – and came to a halt, seeing their own forward scouts sitting on their horses in the road, talking to the two men who were driving a pair of loaded wagons, each pulled by a pair of draft horses: Cortez and Chuy, the men told out by the Capitán to guard the pueblo. Their riding horses were tethered behind each wagon.

Seeing Felipe and the others, Cortez, in the lead wagon, stood up and grinned broadly. He waited until the men had gathered near enough to hear, then gestured grandly towards the wagons. "Plenty of supplies for you, Capitán, courtesy of Colonel Torres of the Resistance, and whoever the commander was of the Spanish company!"

"Colonel Torres?" was Felipe's astonished echo, and Cortez's grin widened.

"General Guerrero apparently got wind of this operation, or some such, and sent him and his company up the river to counter it. They quick-marched past Santa Blanca yesterday just about the time you were engaging them at the valley's head. So after you led the cavalry away, they took care of the rest. But Colonel Torres said especially to give you his complements, because if you _hadn't_ taken out the cavalry, they would not have won so handily over the infantry. As it was, they were crushed. So the Colonel sent you both these wagons of goods, as thanks, before they marched on north this morning to see about that third company we turned back."

"So no damage to the pueblo?"

"None! And no deaths or injuries to the citizens."

"_Capitán!"_ Costa's loud, angry voice made even Felipe jump. He jerked his head around to stare at his second, who continued with the same tone while glaring daggers at his commander. _"I don't want to hear another god-damned word about you stepping down."_ He continued to stare for another moment to drive the point home, then turned to the company. "Form up! Two by two, wagons in the middle! Let's go home!"

Still grinning, the men scrambled to comply. Felipe waved them off, and sat on Diablo for several long minutes, looking down over the peaceful town with a tiny, embarrassed smile, before he too pulled the horse around and cantered after his company of partisans.


	24. Chapter 24

**TWENTY-FOUR**

Diego's introduction to the hidden valley that was Felipe's and the partisans' home, and would become his, was unfortunately a bloody one; but luckily he didn't spill any of it himself.

Two days after leaving Santa Blanca with their new loaded wagons, the company was riding west into a small pueblo named Telaco – the nearest one to their own, Diego would find out – when suddenly a visibly distraught woman was running down the road towards them, calling out "Manuel! Capitán!" through her sobs.

"Sara!" one of the partisans yelled, spurring his horse forward. He jumped off and scooped her up and she clung to him for a moment, before pushing him off and reaching for Felipe's hands instead. The rest of the troop crowded as close as they could to hear as the Capitán likewise sprung down.

"Capitán! Thank God you are here! Soldiers invaded the valley, yesterday!" That caused a loud general ruckus until Costa shouted them all to silence. She was babbling and sobbing by then, until Felipe dropped her hands and took her upper arms instead.

"Sara! _Sara!_ You can fall apart in a minute, but right now I need you to _calm down, _so you can tell me what I need to know." The phrase seemed to work on her, too, as well as his instructions to take several deep breaths. "Now. When did this start?"

Just before noon on the day before, she replied. She was in charge of all the children – "Except Julio, he was with Gina!" – and a man near Diego moaned aloud, his partner putting a hand on his shoulder. They were gathering berries and playing on the slope above the cantina when she heard a commotion from the road. "So I stood and looked, and it was soldiers, in uniform!" Careful questioning and her memory revealed about a dozen men, perhaps a few more, on horseback, riding hard into their pueblo from the west. "So I grabbed up the children and ran with them into the forest. I tried to make it a game, a race, but then..."

"Then?" Felipe prompted.

"I heard gunshots, and screams, and shouting," Sara whimpered, staring into his eyes. "So I took the children up again, and we went up through the forest to the arroyo, and made it here. The big ones helped carry the little ones. We got here yesterday afternoon, and have been waiting for you."

"They're all here?" someone put in.

"Yes, at my house," put in a man from the edge of the group. He pushed in to stand behind Sara.

"Not all of them," Felipe quipped, looking beyond them. "Juan!" A young boy of perhaps ten was walking swiftly towards them, his face twisted as he held back tears. One of the guerrilleros nearly ran to him and scooped him up. Other villagers were gathering around the group, concern written on each face. It struck Diego that these fighting men were welcomed and respected, not feared.

There was general movement on the edges of the company as fathers turned toward the village, but Felipe called them to a halt for one minute. "The children are all fine," the local man said quickly. "The soldiers didn't come through here. We sent a runner to San Pedro, where they must have ridden through, but he hasn't come back," he added.

"Thank you, Alcalde," Felipe said to him, and then to Sara, meaning it. Then he dropped his hands and stepped back, pitching his voice to reach everyone. "We ride out in fifteen minutes. Fathers, see to your children. The rest, water the horses. And everyone prepare for battle. Go."

"Get the packs and saddlebags off, and pile them on a wagon!" Costa called after them, then turned to the Alcalde. "Can you hide the wagons for us?"

"Of course! We'll put them in the big barn." The two of them turned to get that done.

"You!" Felipe pointed at Diablo, who laid his ears back. "Go drink some water. Don't argue!"

"I'll take him," Diego said. "He'll still let me take care of him, won't you, boy?" Passing by with his own Rojo on the way to the town fountain, he took up Diablo's reins as well.

Coming back a few minutes later, Diego caught Felipe watching Juan and his son with amusement. The boy was protesting something. "What's this?" Felipe walked up to them. "Juan Diego? What is this noise?" He got down on one knee and looked severely up into the boy's face.

"I want to help!" Juan Diego was trying to hold back tears. "I'm nearly ten! I can help! I'm not afraid! And I'm the fastest runner in the village – you know I am, Capitán! And you always say everyone needs to do their part!"

"Yes, I do," Felipe was forced to admit.

"And they have my Mama! Please, I want to help!"

"All right," Felipe said gravely, holding out a hand to quell Juan who started to protest himself. "And in fact... I have the perfect job, just for you." He sucked in a breath, looking pensive. "But I'm afraid you're not going to like it very much."

"Why? What is it?"

"I need you here, to help Señora Sara look after the little ones. They look up to you, you know," he added quickly as the boy's face fell. "Especially your little sister. They need to see you being brave, and doing what is needed. And they need you to help them not be afraid." Juan Diego was obviously trying to convince himself. Felipe went on, "But that's not all, There is something else I need you to do, at the same time."

"What is that, Capitán?"

"I need you to be watching, out here on the street, every minute, while you are helping with the little ones. And if you see _anyone_ that you don't know, any stranger – "

"Like him?" Juan Diego broke in, pointing directly to Diego.

Felipe swiveled to see and grinned quickly before turning back. "That's very good! Yes, like him – but not him. He's all right – he's new. He's with the company now. So is the other one," Felipe turned on his heel again to find Jaime and pointed him out to the boy, "the one with the mustache. They are both with us. But anyone else that you don't know, especially if he's dressed in a uniform, like a soldier, or _especially_ if he's carrying a gun, _then_ what you must do, is you must run _as fast as you can,"_ he tapped the boy's chest for emphasis, "to Señora Sara and tell her about the stranger _at once. _And _then,_ you must run and tell the Alcalde. They both must know about any strangers as soon as you see them. But most important!" Felipe held up a finger to forestall the boy's now-happy acceptance of the job. "The stranger _must not see you._ Or if he does, you must make him think you are only playing. A lookout must never be seen, or recognized for what he is. And that is what you are now, a lookout. Can you do all this?"

Juan Diego answered proudly that he could, and would. "But Capitán? How long do you think this will take?"

Felipe answered that he couldn't be certain, of course, but he was fairly sure that all the parents would be coming to get their children by sunset. "Thank you, Juan Diego," he ended seriously. "I will rest easy in my mind now, knowing you are watching here. Oh! And one more thing! When I see you again, I will expect a report, like your father gives me. Can you do that?"

"Of course!"

Felipe gave the boy a proud nod. "Then go, and do good things."

"Vaya con Díos, Capitán!"

"Vaya con Díos, Juan Diego." Felipe got to his feet as the boy turned to his father to repeat the benediction proudly to a fellow fighter. Juan returned it gravely, then scooped his son up for one more hug against his protests.

As Felipe turned and walked towards Diego to collect his horse, Diego told him, "I have to admit, that was rather impressive."

"I learned it from you!"

"From me?"

Felipe pulled Diablo around so he could look back at Diego. "You let a scrawny boy who couldn't even talk help Zorro – and made it seem like the second most important job in California – after Zorro's, of course!"

"It _was_ important!" Diego protested.

Felipe hooked a thumb back at Juan Diego. "Yeah! So is _that!"_ Leaving his brother to ponder that one, Felipe mounted his stallion and rode him to the middle of the milling group of partisans finishing their preparations. At his whistle – Diego was learning to recognize it as "Attention!" – they all gathered round.

"Amigos!" Felipe had lost all pretense of good humor now, the seriousness of the situation in their valley showing in the fury on his features. "I know that every one of you wants to go charging in there, guns blazing, an _hour_ ago! But _none of you_ wants that more than _me!"_ He paused for a moment, as Diego – and presumably others – remembered that the Capitán's wife was also there. His eyes blazed. "But that is _exactly_ what they want us to do! And I will be _damned_ if I'll lead you into two traps in a single week!" He paused again, letting that sink in. When several men nodded, he went on, taking a deep breath and visibly forcing calm. His voice dropped a notch. "So I swallow my fear, and we will do this the right way. Secure the perimeter first, and _then_ we will go in by the escape route that they know nothing about!" _Sara's way out,_ Diego realized.

Now the Capitán slipped fully into command mode, laying out the plan he had formulated in the last few minutes. "We ride together up to the east gate, then split. Costa's squad takes the north rim, mine the south. Find all of their lookouts, and take them out. We'll meet at the west gate, then return to the notch. We leave the horses there and go down the slope on foot. Stop just inside the trees, spread out in line, and wait for my signal. Got it?" Nods all around.

"I need four volunteers, one team from each squad, to get to San Pedro. Clean it out of anyone hiding there, and come into the valley that way." Two men spoke up after tapping their partners, and Felipe nodded. "We will not wait for you at the west gate. You decide how to come in to the valley."

He looked around at the men again. "Rendezvous is back here. Take care of the children," he ended quietly. "That is the most important."

"Any questions?" No one spoke. "Then from here, we are _silent._ Mount up! Let's go!"

In less than a minute, on horses moving quietly in their leather shoes, the partisan company was galloping up the mountain to their hidden valley home, faces set and hard, Diego and Jaime both riding determinedly in their midst.


	25. Chapter 25

**TWENTY-FIVE**

The next hour passed in a blur for Diego. They arrived at the small pass they called the east gate into the valley, and Felipe hand-signaled a halt while he and several others searched for their own missing lookout, who should have been there. They found him hidden in the trees, shot and left for dead. From the looks of it, he died in his Capitán's arms after a few words. Felipe laid him back down and returned to remount Diablo, his face hard as granite. Two pointer fingers thrown outward signaled the split, and the two squads turned to follow their leaders single file.

A short time later, one of the men in Felipe's – Diego's – squad broke the silence. "Capitán!" he called in a piercing whisper. "The smoke!" It was rising from below, apparently from several fireplaces.

"I _see_ it!" Felipe snapped. "Silence!"

"What's wrong with the smoke?" Diego whispered to the nearest man, as quietly as he could.

"It's a signal," came the equally low reply. "We always use the driest wood possible – no smoke."

Diego was riding well back in the squad, so he was not called on to take out either of the lookouts they encountered. After meeting up with Costa's squad, (sharing a strained look with Jaime), they returned along the south rim, turning off the path near the center and dismounting, hitching each horse to a tree behind the skyline from the valley. Then Felipe and Costa led them through a very narrow arroyo – one Diego had jumped Rojo over without even noticing it the first time – through the rim and down into the trees below. Diego decided to keep close to Felipe then, ending up a few feet away inside the trees. Costa was on Felipe's other side, and Jaime beyond.

All seemed quiet and still in the little pueblo scattered across the valley floor, except for the black smoke still rising from a few chimneys. Then it wasn't, as a soldier walked out from one building, and Felipe's hawk's scream whistle split the air, followed by several shots. A woman's piercing scream and other screams and shouting sounded from the largest building a moment later. More soldiers in uniform burst out of various houses to be cut down. The partisans remained in the trees, taking their shots. Diego held his rifle, but didn't shoot. He felt he was in this fight, but still detached from it. He couldn't bring himself to fire.

Suddenly the door of one house across the way burst open, and a large, sloppy man with corporal's insignia on his stained uniform sleeves lurched out, dragging a petite woman along with an arm around her neck. She looked tiny, almost childlike, compared to him. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her blouse had been ripped open, exposing her breasts. The corporal held a pistol to her head as he shouted challenges into the air, daring El Halcón to come out.

Diego saw her mouth move, saying something to the Corporal, and he replied before moving the hand around her neck to one of her breasts. Felipe, a few feet to his right, snarled, "Take him out!" in the lowest, deadliest voice Diego had ever heard, and he realized that she had to be Felipe's young wife. Costa knelt down and sighted his rifle on the corporal, propping it on a tree limb. Diego realized suddenly that he had never taken a good look at Costa's weapon: it was longer than standard by nearly a foot – one of the newer, far more accurate models.

Felipe's whistle suddenly sounded again – and the woman instantly folded her knees, dropping to the ground out of the corporal's grasp. Costa's rifle roared a beat later, and the corporal went down, his head blossoming blood.

But his finger had tightened on his pistol's trigger, too, sending a bullet across her head. Blood splattered against her tumbled black hair, as well.

"_ANNA!"_ Felipe screamed, launching himself across the clearing. Diego found himself pounding after his brother without forming the conscious intention. He dropped to his knees beside the two, helping Felipe shove the beefy corporal off her still form. As Felipe scooped her up, clutching her close, Diego grabbed her legs.

"_Felipe! Get her to safety!"_ he yelled. Felipe came to himself in an instant, surging up with her and lurching back towards the house the corporal had dragged her out of, Diego following on his heels with his half of the light burden. They went around to the side away from the others – away from the sounds of continued gunfire Diego now registered – and set her gently on the ground. Diego told Felipe to hold her upright while he pulled out his knife and slashed her bonds, then they propped her still-unconscious form against the wall.

"Anna!" Felipe was crying, his hands on either side of her still face. Diego knocked those hands away and took hold of her head, examining the wound in a trice.

"It's just a crease. Scalp wounds always bleed like mad. She'll be fine." He already knew she had no other wounds. Felipe was miles away, not absorbing the information, however, so Diego suddenly saw red. He whirled around, grabbing Felipe's collar. _"Felipe!"_ he yelled into the younger man's face, finally getting his full attention. "She's fine! I've got her! You have work to do! Now GO!" And he shoved his brother backwards into the dirt.

Felipe gulped, snapping back to himself. He ripped off his jacket and laid it across his wife's exposed chest, leaned over and kissed her unresponsive lips, grabbed the pistol out of Diego's belt (he had forgotten he carried it – where was his rifle? He must have dropped it back in the trees), surged up, and ran around to the back of the house. Diego let him go, blocking out sounds of battle near and far, as he tore off his own jacket and then ripped off a shirt sleeve, rolling it up and pressing it to the wound on Marianna's scalp to absorb the sluggishly pumping blood, realizing a beat later he had remembered her full name.

She really was tiny, he realized now, looking like a porcelain doll. Standing, she'd barely fetch her husband's nose with the top of her head – and he was not quite six feet tall. He mentally brushed that aside and concentrated on the gash leaking blood into her glossy black hair.

A moment later, another woman ran back around the same corner and screeched to a stop at the sight of him there. He threw up a hand – the one not holding the sleeve pad. "It's all right! I'm with the Capitán – I'm new! Help me with this!" The woman gulped, not sure what to believe. "Hold this bandage tight!" he snapped, and that prodded her into action. Dropping to her knees beside him, she reached out to hold the pad, and he removed his hand and ripped off his other sleeve.

"Will she be all right?"

"She'll be fine. It's just a scalp wound. She'll be coming around in a minute." Diego wrapped his other sleeve around her head and tied it as best he could, holding the pad in place against the wound. "Keep holding it, put pressure on it to stop the bleeding." He noticed out of the corner of his eyes that the other woman's blouse had likewise been ripped open, but ignored it.

"Marianna! Marianna! Please wake up!" The woman began patting her face with her other hand. After a moment, moaning, Marianna's eyes fluttered open.

"Sofia?" she murmured, dazed. Then she registered this strange man bending over her and gasped, eyes flying open wide, and tried to shrink back.

As he had a moment earlier, Diego threw up his hands, saying rapidly, "It's all right! I'm with the Capitán – with Felipe! I've joined the company!" With this, his sister-in-law, he added, voice a little calmer, "In fact, I'm his brother. I'm Diego de la Vega."

That didn't seem to help. "He said his brother is dead," Marianna shook her head, her eyes still full of fear.

"He was mistaken," Diego told her, as reassuringly as he could manage. "His mind was playing tricks on him." Then he gave up. "It's a long story."

"Aren't they all?" she asked, seemingly rhetorically. Diego blinked at her using the same phrase Felipe had, then recognized it a beat later for what it was: proof they were a couple. What pair didn't have their shared code words and phrases? Before he could react, Marianna's eyes had fallen on herself. "This is his jacket? Where is – never mind," she cut herself off as a burst of gunfire sounded from the other side of the house. Diego had to admire her calm presence of mind. He slipped his jacket back on over his now sleeveless shirt.

The other woman – Sofia – silent through this exchange, broke in. "The children! Señor! Our children – they are missing!"

"They're fine!" he jumped to reassure them both, as Marianna's face also panicked. "Sara got them all out – they're in the east village. We just came from there!"

"Oh thank God!" both women seemed to breathe together, clutching at each other for support.

"Here, let's get you up and back inside under cover," Diego said, reaching for Marianna's hand and arm to help her stand. Sofia held her other arm, as Marianna held Felipe's jacket across her chest to assist her modesty. As soon as she was on her feet, Marianna firmly withdrew her hand from Diego's.

"Thank you, Señor. I am fine," she said with quiet dignity. "There will be others who need you more. Please go and help them."

Diego recognized a polite dismissal when he heard it. He tipped his head with a little smile, feeling as though they'd been transported to a fine parlor. "Señora." Nodding at Sofia as well, he stepped past them to the corner of the house.

"Now _there's_ a fine gentleman," he heard Sofia murmur, and Marianna replied, "Now we know where Felipe got _his_ manners," and smiled, then turned his attention to assessing the situation at large.

The partisans had come out of the trees, and were methodically scouring the village for each of the invaders. One such burst out of hiding and was cut down by several guns at once. Each of the men lying sprawled on the ground wore soldier's uniforms, and weren't moving. Diego shook his head to forcibly clear it and looked closer, searching for wounded. _This is why I'm here,_ he thought. _As medic, I can help._

Screams and cries were still coming from the largest building across the way, although they didn't seem to be signaling ongoing attack any more. As he sprinted in that direction, he realized they sounded like pain, not fear. One of the partisans – he recognized Carlos a moment later – ran out the front door and looked around, yelling Diego's name. "Here!" he called back, reaching him a moment later. Carlos grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

"Selma!" he cried. "My wife! She is badly burned!" He hurried Diego over to a large kitchen area, where they knelt down beside the woman still keening. Large, ugly blisters covered both of her palms, which she held out stiffly in front of her. Diego swore.

"Get a bucket of water!" he ordered Carlos, who surged back up and ran out. Diego turned to another woman kneeling beside Selma, holding her wrists. Kneeling beside Selma, Diego reached around and took her wrists from the woman, holding them apart and away from anything else. "Is there an ice house here? Get some!" She nodded, her face white, and like Carlos lurched up and ran. Moments later, ice added to the water bucket, Diego plunged her hands into the water, and Selma finally fainted into his arms. He doubted the relief was that instant, but any lessening was a goodness. Carlos knelt by her other side and eased her into his own arms, tenderness etched into his hardened, sunburned face.

"What happened?" Diego asked both the others, and finally got the story. Selma had grabbed a boiling pot of stew off the fire with her bare hands when Felipe's initial attack whistle had sounded, and thrown it into the face of the soldier guarding them, blinding him. The others trapped there had then jumped on the soldier and killed him – Diego did not ask how. He ignored the body of the soldier lying several feet away.

"Will she be all right?" Carlos asked in a strangled whisper. When Diego nodded, he nearly fainted himself in relief.

"It will take many weeks, and she – and we – must be very careful, but she should recover. Keep her hands in this bucket, but not touching the ice directly, for a couple of hours, to leech out the fire. Bring them out every few minutes so they don't freeze. And _Do. Not._ Pop the blisters! We'll wrap them very loosely in bandages this evening. That's about all we can do for now."

Carlos nodded. "Can't you help the pain?"

"Do you have any laudanum?"

"Yes. Ask Gino."

"I'll get it," the woman put in quickly and left, returning a few minutes later with a large brown bottle. Diego hated using the stuff, but it was the only method they had for handling what he knew was going to be Selma's excruciating pain. He got Carlos' permission to keep her dosed for the next several days, to get her past the worst of it, and (after examining the bottle's label closely and hoping it was telling the truth) told him and the woman, whose name, he discovered, was Anita, exactly how much to give and how often. Anita's husband, Miguel, had come back in with her.

The sounds of warfare coming from outside had been slowly fading all this time; now mostly silence descended, until suddenly new ugly, obscene shouts were heard. Diego helped Carlos shift the still-unconscious Selma into a more comfortable position and then left them together to walk outside to investigate.

All the rest of the guerrilleros, it seemed to Diego, were loosely gathered in the open area between the buildings; some four dozen men and more than a dozen women, most of the latter in a man's (their husband's, he vaguely hoped) arms. But all attention was now on a new group of six nasty-looking men on foot, being chivvied along by the four mounted partisans who Felipe had sent to San Pedro, the west village, at the start of the operation.

"_Gina! Where is she? What have you done with her?"_ One of the partisans came flying out of nowhere towards the nasty group. Diego recognized Mario, and realized dimly he'd been hearing him calling for his wife for the past many minutes. Apparently she – and their baby Julio – were still missing.

"We don't know! We haven't seen her!" one of the captives replied. "Mario, I'm telling the truth! We don't know!" They knew each other, Diego realized. _What the hell is going on here?_

One of the captives, a tall, lean man with a hardened, sneering look, was doing all the shouting, while the other five shuffled rather sheepishly along behind him. The leader was brandishing his long knife, yelling for someone to come out and face him "like a man".

Of course, he was yelling for Felipe. El Halcón. He knew the name.

And here came Felipe from his house, his face icy granite again. Diego couldn't believe what he was about to witness, and started purposely towards his brother. Costa beat him there, whispering in Felipe's ear and getting some reply. Then Felipe saw Diego coming, but waved him sharply off, pulling out his own knife as he turned towards the newcomer. Everyone else backed off and gave them room. It seemed there was about to be a knife fight.


	26. Chapter 26

**TWENTY-SIX**

"Felipe – " Diego tried to call his brother, but Costa cut him off – literally, throwing an arm out to stop Diego's motion.

"He knows what he's doing," Costa growled at him. "He's a born fighter. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

Diego stared at the old man, not believing his ears. "Then why are you worried?"

Costa had to look away, staring at the two now circling each other. "Because I know Cobra. He used to ride with us. Pure evil," he added in a low voice.

There was nothing Diego could do now. The fight was on. He watched, heart in his throat, as Felipe dodged and feinted, grappled and broke, spun and danced. The watching crowd was utterly silent, aware of the stakes.

Diego gasped involuntarily as the other man – Cobra – fell, rolling, then lunged to his feet, throwing a handful of dirt at Felipe. His brother seemed ready for it, though, shielding his eyes and dancing away. Cobra tossed the knife from one hand to the other and lunged again, stabbing through the dust, grinning. But then, in a move nearly too fast for Diego to follow, Felipe whirled completely around and brought his foot up, slinging it around and kicking the knife out of Cobra's hand. His own knife flashed in, slashing across Cobra's throat, leaving a rapidly-widening trail of bright red. Cobra seemed to realize what had happened a moment later, both hands flying to his sliced throat and his eyes bulging out. Felipe panted at him a moment, then whirled around again, this time bringing his heel to connect with the side of Cobra's head with a startlingly loud crack. Cobra collapsed like a sack of potatoes in the dust, and silence reigned in the valley once more.

Felipe stood over him for a long minute, bringing his breath back down. Then he walked calmly over to Cobra's remaining men. "Go," he said flatly, loud enough for the entire silent watching crowd to hear. "Go home, go south, go to Venezuela, go to hell. Take that carrion with you. And if I ever see _any_ of you, _ever_ again, my face will be the last one you see before God's." Diego, chilled to the bone, didn't doubt the threat, and from their faces, neither did they.

Felipe turned away, back towards his house, but before he'd taken two steps he suddenly yelled out, _"Mario!"_ and pointed. There, running unsteadily from distant cultivated fields, came a woman holding a baby.

"_Gina!"_ Mario yelled and ran to her. Everyone watched to see her nod, mouthing "I'm all right! We're all right!" through her tears.

"Señoras!" Diego realized it was Felipe again. "Your childr – " He broke off as his voice cracked from emotion.

Before he could recover, a woman called back – Diego recognized Sofia, "We know! They're safe! Sara got them all out to Telaco!" Several other women reacted to that with sudden tears; apparently they had not heard yet.

Felipe had found his voice again. "Parents! Go and get your children, bring them back. And the wagons!" Realizing, he added, "Go and bring the horses down, first." He turned and pointed towards Cobra's group again. "Where were they?"

"Hiding in San Pedro," one of their captors replied.

"Then you can take them back there. Tie their hands first. And make sure they are well past the village before you let them go."

He raised his voice again, calling after those who had begun to leave. "Then both groups, bring in our lookouts as you come back. All of them," he added significantly. Diego knew what he meant: living and dead. The one at the west gate had also been found dead, just as the east gate man they had found first. "We all need to be together tonight," Felipe added softly.

He looked around, registering the many uniformed corpses lying about. "I'll take care of it," Costa forestalled him in a low voice, and Felipe nodded gratefully.

At last, the Capitán turned once more towards his house. Marianna had come outside and was waiting by the door, still wearing his jacket, her head wrapped in Diego's sleeve bandages. She ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck, and they stood clinging to each other for several breaths. Diego stood and watched them, squashing a wave of jealousy, thinking longingly of Victoria.

Then Felipe leaned sideways, reached down and scooped his wife up into his arms, and walked steadily into their house with her, kicking the door sharply closed behind them; a bang that punctuated the end of the battle to retake the pueblo of Valle Perdido.


	27. Chapter 27 - Part Four

_**Author's Note:** The remaining parts of my story might end up being even longer, even as my output seems to be slowing down (sorry!). Rather than make y'all wait so long for each part all together, I'm going to start posting a few chapters at a time as they are finished._

* * *

**PART FOUR – SIESTA  
**

**TWENTY-SEVEN**

Diego would never forget the day they retook the valley, nor the long night afterwards. He began the day still an outsider, yet ended it a full part of the community. Nor would he ever forget the lessons in leadership dished out by example by the scrawny, mute boy he'd taken in years before; lessons embedded not only in how the Capitán led and managed the assault, but in the myriad of ways he led his people – utterly naturally – through the aftermath.

After everyone had returned to the pueblo from their various tasks, the women served up a communal meal (a hastily-prepared, albeit delicious, soup of vegetables and bits of smoked ham, along with finger-thick corn tortillas they called sopas) in the large covered patio next to the big building – the cantina, Diego found out. They sent out no signal when it was ready; everyone just drifted to the cantina, so it must have been normal.

He sat with Jaime, who had been in the group escorting Cobra's remaining men down the trail, on the inside of the rectangular table at the corner, facing away from the rest. Feeling distinctly out of place, he concentrated on his soup until there was a commotion behind him. Felipe and Marianna had come from their small house and joined the line at the wide serving window to the inside – but Felipe was trying to get Marianna to sit down while he fetched their meal.

"I'm _fine,"_ she waved him off, irritated. "Stop your fussing."

"I'll fuss if I want to, woman; now _sit!"_ her husband suddenly barked at her, pointing to Diego's table.

Marianna's jaw dropped – as did many others – but then she immediately snapped it shut, marched around to the other side and sat, perfectly proper, ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, staring stony-faced at some point over Diego's head. Glancing back over his shoulder, Diego saw the corner of Felipe's mouth twitch before he turned to the window. Bringing it over a moment later – he somehow managed a bowl and spoon in each hand, the sopas balanced on his wrists – he placed them on the table and sat beside her, then turned to look calmly at her profile.

"Are you going to cut my food up for me, too?" she inquired icily, not even flicking a glance his way.

"If you would like," was his even reply.

She finally turned her gaze on him. "No thank you, I can manage." When he politely gestured towards her bowl, she let loose an aggravated hiss and snatched up her spoon.

Felipe watched her a moment longer, then said in a low voice, almost too low for Diego to catch – not that he was actively eavesdropping! – "Let me fuss over you when I can, Querida. I just want to take care of you. And so often, I can't."

Marianna had turned to eye him again. After a moment, she told him, "Your soup is getting cold," but the ice had melted. Felipe smiled then, forgiven, and leaned over to kiss her cheek – which she tilted obligingly – before they both began to eat.

"Diego," Felipe leaned over to whisper after several spoonfuls. His brother looked up. "You've spoken to the women?"

"Some, not all."

If possible, Felipe dropped his voice even further. "Did you get any sense that any of the women had been... assaulted?"

Diego thought. "No, not that I saw. But I wouldn't take that as the final word. I didn't even see all of them." When Felipe turned the question to Jaime beside him with raised eyebrows, their friend just shrugged and shook his head.

Felipe blew out a breath, worried and frustrated. Marianna had been looking around the tables, though, and put a hand on Felipe's arm briefly before she stood. The three men surreptitiously watched her step to someone's side – Diego recognized Sofia when she turned her head – and exchange a couple of short sentences, then Marianna returned and sat again, silently shaking her head at Felipe. "Thank god," he sighed, heartfelt, and Diego and Jaime nodded.

Quickly finishing his meal, Felipe stood, stepped back behind the bench, and leaned his hips against the waist-high wall behind him that enclosed the patio. Leaning forward again, he picked up his spoon and rapped it sharply several times on the table. "Don't stop eating," he said when everyone was quiet. "Is everyone here?"

Diego and Jaime joined those looking around, seeing the children sitting with their parents for the first time. "Selma is sleeping inside," Carlos said.

One of the women looked back through the window and called, "Javier! Come join us." Felipe added his call to that, and a moment later a young teenager of perhaps thirteen that Diego hadn't seen before walked uncertainly out of the door and sat beside the woman, his face blotchy and strained from grief – a family member of one of the fallen.

"Mis amigos..." Felipe began, his voice raw. "We have been badly mauled this past week." He swallowed as he looked around at everyone. "I'm sure you all have heard, we lost seven men out there. We gained two," gesturing at Diego and Jaime, "but they in no way replace anyone." He paused again. "How many did we lose here?" he asked Costa, who was sitting at the next table.

"Three," was the reply. "Marquez, Fallon, and Colores."

"Both of our lookouts," Felipe said softly. Diego had learned earlier that Marquez was an older man who had come with the company when they moved here, to run the cantina. "Where are they? Inside?" He gestured towards the building, and Costa nodded.

"Capitán?" a woman's very shaky voice interrupted. Looking around, Diego saw a younger woman, her face wretched and holding a toddler to her shoulder, rise to her feet. "Where is my husband's body?" she managed.

"In Santa Blanca," Felipe replied immediately with the information Cortez had given him on the journey home. "Buried in the church yard. After the battle there – which we will go over – the residents went out and collected all the bodies they could find. They found six of ours, and buried them at the church." He named the six. "The seventh was Jorge, who died of his wounds at the base of the Bishop, and is buried there. And from now on, the Bishop is Jorge's Column – at least to me." Several others agreed. The new widow nodded once and sat again, grief-stricken but trying to stay composed. The woman next to her put an arm around her shoulders.

Felipe glanced at the sun – it was mid afternoon. "We will bury our three comrades at sunset, and come back after to honor _all_ our fallen ones, the way we do." That puzzled Diego and Jaime, who exchanged a glance and shrugged. They'd find out. "For now, though," Felipe went on, "we all need to understand everything that happened, here and away, so there are no mysteries."

And with that, starting with the invasion of their valley by the soldiers the day before, he walked the group through every step, asking each individual what they had done and seen, letting everyone have their say and get it out, adding their piece to the whole. He started with Sara, since she had likely been the first to see the invaders, letting her get the children to safety in Telaco; and then he made sure to get Juan Diego's report, accepting it gravely and thanking the boy for his assistance, even though he hadn't seen any strangers all day. "Yes, thank you, Juan Diego," a woman clutching two small children broke in, "for watching over my children! And Sara..." She couldn't finish, but it was written on her face. Someone began banging their spoon on a table, and all joined in, even Felipe and Marianna – their method of recognition. Sara just nodded acknowledgment, tearfully holding her own child close.

The women had just been coming in from the fields scattered all across the valley when the soldiers attacked. Gina, further away, had seen them in time and disappeared into the corn with her infant Julio, creeping into a small shed with him after dark and waiting there for the company's return. The others had been rounded up and herded into the cantina, threatened and questioned, until the Corporal (nobody ever caught his name) was satisfied that this _was_ El Halcón's valley, and he was expected to return soon with his company. The women were made to prepare a meal for the soldiers, then their hands were tied and they were bedded down all together, under guard in the cantina's big downstairs room. The next day, they had been divided up, and some taken into various houses along with some soldiers as camouflage to simply wait it out. Marianna and Sofia had ended up in the Capitán's house together with the Corporal and one other.

"Whose idea was the smoke, by the way? It was brilliant!" Felipe asked at that point, evidently wanting to lighten things up a bit.

"Marianna's," Sofia replied, smiling as she stood. "You should have seen her; she was wonderful! 'No, Sofia, don't use _that_ wood,'" she went on in an exaggerated drawl, " 'the _skunk_ got into it, _remember?'" _Sofia raised a hand to fan her nose as Marianna had done. "'My house stinks bad enough without you making it worse!' That fat Corporal was sitting _right there_ at the table! 'Use the _new_ wood!'" Everyone was laughing now, while Marianna turned her face away, blushing. Felipe, smiling broadly, leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Sofia turned serious, putting her hands on her hips. "You are all being too gentlemanly to ask outright, but you deserve to know. No. None of us were raped. You can thank Doña Marianna for that, as well. They were going to, but she convinced the Corporal that it would hurt all of you far worse than anything else to have to watch it happen in front of you, before you were killed. So the Corporal thought about it, and ordered them to leave us all alone until after you were captured. Yes," she answered the query in Felipe's eyes, "some of us were exposed, and they leered and made lewd comments, and some of us were even touched... but none of us were raped."

"Jesus!" Felipe said aloud, over the murmuring – some of it angry – from the other men. He looked down at Marianna, his eyes wide, unable to go on for a moment. "You weren't wrong about the pain... but I'm glad it worked."

"Me too," was her simple, understated reply, but her eyes spoke volumes.

(A few days later, Diego would hear another story of Marianna facing down the Corporal again, one he never asked Felipe about. The fat man had stood before her, put a gun to her head, and exposed himself, preparing to violate her mouth. She stared daggers back at him and said calmly that if he put "that thing" – or anything else – in her mouth, she would instantly bite it completely off, even if he killed her a moment later. That would be better than living with the shame and the taste of it. "So think carefully," she said, "and decide whether the one second of pleasure would be worth never fucking another woman again." The Corporal had backed down again; although the stories varied as to what he had done next, none were as bad as what he had threatened. Diego wasn't certain he believed the story when he first heard it, but later he did, as he discovered that his brother's petite, delicate-looking flower possessed a spine forged from pure Toledo steel.)

They had reached the retaking, and the Capitán then had his own men each tell their part, as well as those who had remained. Diego discovered then that the teenager, Javier, was the son of the lookout killed at the west gate, Colores. He had hidden in the fields like Gina, and gone to find his father's body, hiding helplessly without any weapons until the guerrilleros had come back through and collected his father's body. Trina told how Selma had grabbed the pot of stew without pads and blinded the soldier guarding the few remaining in the cantina, so the others could "finish" him. Felipe had Diego report on her condition, first introducing him as his brother – and Jaime as well. Diego also briefly reported on all the other wounds, including Marianna's – none serious.

And so it went, until all was told. Then Felipe backed up and had his men again tell the complete story of the aborted ambush outside Santa Blanca, and the hidden cavalry's counterattack, and everything that had happened after; telling how each of their comrades had fallen. It was, Diego finally realized, the best possible way for each of them to absorb what had befallen them all, and begin to process their grief and outrage.

When they were all talked out, Felipe led a group of men out to the slope behind the cantina, below the berry bushes, where a handful of graves already were, and together dug three more. Then the fallen from the valley – Felipe refused to use ugly words like 'corpse' – were brought out and laid to rest, each member of the community taking a turn at each grave to say a soft, tearful farewell and add a shovelful or two of dirt – as well as sharing a hug or a word with the small handful of relatives left behind, including two widows and young Javier. A prayer for the dead was intoned by one of the guerrilleros of a religious bent, and at last Felipe led them back to the cantina porch.

If Diego thought it was over, he was soon put straight. Then began what Felipe later, when asked, called an "Irish wake", they had adopted, he said, from some men of Irish descent. Many bottles of wine were brought out and drunk, toasts made to the fallen and to the still-living heroes like Sara, instruments produced and music played, and all shared memories, stories, hugs, laughter, and tears, about their fallen compadres, long into the night. It slowly turned into a long, rowdy, rollicking celebration of life and remembrance, that Diego would see repeated many times in the future, always remembering this first with a sense of surprised, satisfied wonder. Diego and Jaime both shared their stories – or parts of them – as well, making sure never to hog the attention for long.

Listening to the three guitars winding around each other and passing the melody back and forth – the musicians were surprisingly good – Diego felt a hand on his shoulder, and swiveled in his seat to see Felipe grinning at him, far more sober than Diego himself was. He realized his brother must have been nursing the same single cup of wine all night and felt a rueful pang. "Did I ever tell you," Felipe began, "what a _revelation_ music was, the first time I heard it? I had never understood what you all were listening to, before I got my hearing back. It was several months later than I heard some, and I was... completely blown away." His grin turned conspiratorial. "I used to sneak out of the hacienda late on Saturday night, and run down to the pueblo, and sit in the shadows behind the cantina where nobody could see me, just to listen. It's nice to be able to listen openly, now." Not knowing what to say, Diego settled for a grin and an arm around the young man's shoulders, as they sat and listened to music together for the first time.


	28. Chapter 28

**TWENTY-EIGHT**

Diego woke slowly the next morning, head aching from the wine, as women began filtering into the cantina to begin preparing a mass meal. Like the other single men, he had bedded down in the cantina's main room, using benches and tables as beds. The women snickered at their varied degrees of hangover distress, and chased them all out to go jump in the creek and clean up. It was already fairly late in the morning, judging by the sun. As he came downstairs after checking on Selma (sleeping quietly from the laudanum), Diego caught himself patting his pocket for his missing watch for the hundredth time and sighed.

Someone near Diego groaned and muttered, "Oh, god, he's already up there." Looking around curiously, Diego spotted Felipe in a large fenced paddock up the slope opposite the cantina, whipping through exercises with a sword – Diego recognized a few of the patterns.

"What in the word is he doing?" he asked, half rhetorically.

"Practicing," the same man – it was Cortez – said sarcastically. "He makes us all do it, every day, especially when we're here at home." Then he threw a friendly arm around Diego's taller shoulders. "Come on, amigo. Let's go get our asses handed to us." Most of the other men in sight were drifting that way.

"He's that good?" Diego asked, eyebrows flaring – although, remembering the knife fight the day before, Diego realized that Felipe _had_ to be good.

"Yup," Cortez confirmed the surmise.

When they reached the yard, Felipe grinned at Diego before picking up another sword nearby and tossing it to him. It was a practice sword, all blunt tip and thick, dull edges; Diego could see that Felipe's was, as well. "Let's see what you remember!" Felipe taunted him.

"I'm rusty," he warned, swinging the sword a few times to try to warm up stiff, hangovery muscles.

"Best thing for rust is sweat!" And with that, Felipe launched an attack.

He was amazingly good, was the Capitán, Diego realized quickly. He had learned one _hell_ of a lot in these few short years, building on the few things Diego himself had taught him years before. He came after Diego with gusto, pushing him back towards the fence as everyone stood around to watch. At one point, he accused Diego of not even trying, which ticked the older man off as intended, and he stepped it up, intent on showing the young upstart who was still the swordmaster around there. He even managed to hook Felipe's sword out of his hand – but Felipe instantly whirled around and _kicked_ away _his_ sword in response. And a swift breath later, Felipe's dagger was at his throat – where had _that_ come from?

"Next time, don't stop to celebrate," Felipe taunted again.

"Noted," Diego replied, seething inside.

Felipe grinned and backed away. "Good. Work with Costa, he needs the exercise." He hooked an infuriatingly casual thumb at the old man leaning against the fence, then turned to Jaime.

Both newcomers had realized by now that this was a test of some sort. Jaime chose knives, rather than swords, and one of the men tossed a couple of wooden daggers to Felipe. They went at it for several minutes, neither one scoring on the other – and then, all at once, Jaime got his knife past Felipe's defenses and up against his belly. Felipe stared down at it, agog.

"Pay him! Pay him!" came the chant from the onlookers. Felipe grinned and backed off, taking it well, and dug a peso out of a pocket, explaining to Jaime and Diego that he paid that ransom to any of his men who could score on him in the practice yard. He claimed that he'd only ever paid out a handful. There was a catch, he added as he handed the coin over to Jaime. They had to teach the trick to him, and others in the company. No one would catch him on the same thing twice. Jaime grinned back and agreed, and the lessons began, even as those not involved in them began pairing off and sparing with whatever their weapons of choice were.

Diego stayed against the fence, watching. Some time later, Felipe wandered over to him, a slight, conspiratorial smile on his face.

"Now you know our secret," he began. "None of us thinks they have nothing else to learn. We all learn from each other, all the time. I learned that from you." Diego allowed himself a small, satisfied smile in return. "I learned a _lot_ from you," Felipe went on, "including not giving up." Suddenly, he jettisoned the smile and began to hiss, too low for anyone else to hear. "What the hell is wrong with you? When I found you the other day, you'd given up. You were just laying there, waiting for someone to finish you off. Well, _fuck_ that. Get up. Try again. Keep trying. Because if you do, you _will_ get back home again. I believe that. Because I believe in you. You taught me that, too, by believing in me." Felipe paused a long moment, letting all that sink in. Diego, stunned by the rapid-fire onslaught from this most unexpected source, simply gaped at him. "I can't give that back to you; I don't know how. You're going to have to find it in yourself." Felipe leaned in closer. _"Start looking."_ And with that final, fierce order – it was definitely an order from the Capitán – Felipe turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Diego staring after him, his head whirling.

Where had _that_ come from? He wanted to shout after Felipe that it wasn't true, none of it, but... deep down, he knew it was. _But I had no choice!_ Didn't he? _Are you sure about that?_ he found himself arguing in his own mind, different voices playing it out.

"It wasn't you," came a new voice. It took Diego a moment to realize it came from outside his head, to his side. Turning, he saw Costa had come to lean against the fence beside him. He hadn't even noticed. "That drives him," the laconic man clarified, seeing Diego's confusion. "The fire inside, the fury – that comes from something else. Not you." Costa looked at him a moment longer, appraising, then went on. "But I'll tell you what you _did_ give him. His moral code. You may not recognize it, but it's there, iron-clad." Costa turned to watch the men sparring, giving Diego time to absorb that.

"Why do you follow him?" Diego wanted to know.

Costa shot him a puzzled look. "You've seen him."

"Yes, I've seen... But I want to hear it from you. You're an old soldier, aren't you? Why do you follow him? He's just a kid – younger than any of you by far."

"He's not a kid," Costa shook his head. "I'm not sure he was _ever_ a kid. Although he was green as a frog when he joined us," he added ironically, "and about as soft. He wanted to learn to fight. And he did. He'd be in your face all damn day to teach him something. When you got tired of him and pushed him away, he'd just go to somebody else. But then... he _practiced_ what he'd been shown, over and over and over again, until he had it down _cold._ Made me tired just watching him. But now..." He paused again, and Diego waited. "I don't think he _can_ be beat. He's always got one more trick – like kicking your sword out – and then another one after that, and another, and another. And that goes for troop combat, too, not just hand-to-hand. He's a fucking genius at it."

They were silent for a time, leaning against the fence side by side, watching the others spar, then Costa added in a low voice, almost more to himself than to Diego, "It's more than that, though. He actually _listens_ – like last night. He respects others. And he cares. About everybody."

He glanced sideways at Diego, then made a decision. "I'll tell you one more thing, de la Vega – and if you ever breathe a word of this to _anybody_, I'll fucking _kill _you."

That startled a laugh from Diego, who sobered instantly and told him, not at all facetiously, "Cross my heart!"

Costa snorted. "If I _did_ believe in fairy tales – and I don't, but if I _did_... I could believe he was the lost prince. He should have taken the sword _out_ of the stone, not put it in."

It was Diego's turn to snort in recognition – but he did it softly. "And what does that make me?" he wondered.

"Sir Kay," Costa shot back – and then Diego really did burst out laughing.

"I deserved that."

"Come on, de la Vega," Costa said in as friendly a tone as Diego had yet heard from the old man, pushing himself away from the fence and picking up the two practice swords lying where Diego had dropped them earlier. "Let's see if we have anything to teach each other."


	29. Chapter 29

_**Author's Note: **I'm not going to repeat all of Felipe's and Marianna's backstories (this chapter is long enough without them). For details, see _The Ballad of El Halcón.

* * *

**TWENTY-NINE**

After a couple of hours in the practice yard, everyone began drifting in sweaty, exhausted, but satisfied ones and twos back down the hill. Costa and Diego had discovered they were fairly evenly matched in overall skill with a sword – at least at the moment – although their styles, learned from different teachers, contrasted dramatically. Neither could get much of an advantage on the other that first day. Diego, realizing how rusty he really had become, promised himself he would work as hard as needed to recover his skills quickly.

Jaime joined Diego halfway down the hill. They hadn't had much chance to talk in the last couple of days. Jaime grinned at his friend. "You look better, amigo. More awake and alive than you have in months."

Diego agreed, nodding his head ruefully. "I feel that way. You look better, too."

Jaime took a deep breath and nodded. "I feel more alive... and more _useful_... than I have in years."

"You were useful on the rancho, with the horses," Diego said, perhaps just a touch wounded.

"I know that. And I felt it. And enjoyed it. But that wasn't what I have been trained to do my whole life." Halting his stride a moment, he turned to face Diego, took a deep breath, and smiled. "This is a good company. Good men. Well-led. And with a mission... that I could believe in." The smile became a grin. "I'm glad they found us, and scooped us up."

Diego had stopped walking, too. There was a light in Jaime's eyes that he hadn't seen in... he couldn't remember when. He wasn't going to argue with the cause. Slapping Jaime's shoulder, he said simply, in typical Diego understatement, "Me, too."

A minute later, the two of them were told out of the line at the food service window by Sofia, handed a couple of bottles of wine each and a large round loaf of brown wheat bread, an unusual treat warm from the ovens, and sent up to Felipe's house for lunch. The front and back doors were both open when they arrived, letting the warm breeze flow through. When Diego knocked, Felipe called them in, and then – apparently on a impish whim – re-introduced each of them to his wife with grave formality.

Don Diego bowed low over Doña Marianna's hand. "Welcome to our grand hacienda!" she declared regally, waving a languid hand at their tiny one-room cabin, and he thanked her with a flourish.

"It is magnificent, Señora. I especially like the triple fountain in the courtyard – it is breathtaking!"

"Why thank you, Señor! I am fond of it myself. I shall pass your compliments to our architect!"

"All right, that's enough," Felipe broke in with amused exasperation, reaching in and lifting her hand out from his brother's. "She can go on as long as you can," he added to Diego.

"Oh, is that where you learned it?" Marianna inquired of her husband innocently. Caught out, he gave her a mock offended glare then turned to Jaime.

Jaime refused the "Sergeant" Felipe tried to pin on him, protesting that he hadn't been one in years. "Just Jaime, please, Señora."

"Then I am simply Marianna," she smiled warmly back, all pretend airs falling away, and seated their guests at their small square table. In just another minute, nuts, apples, cheese, and cups of water had joined the wine and bread, and Felipe proposed a toast to Family and Friends, to which Diego added Home.

"I can't argue with that," Felipe commented and drank.

"Which reminds me: I have an announcement to make. I've been saving it for the right moment." Diego grinned across the table at his brother, enjoying it. "Forgive me, Felipe, but I couldn't help overhearing you the other day, when you told Costa that I wasn't really your brother." He paused dramatically, for all his next words were as soft-spoken as ever. "Actually, I am." Felipe's confusion was written all over his face. "After you left, Father _did_ write out the petition for adoption, and shepherded it through the courts for approval. He told me that _when_, not _if,_ you came home, that you would _officially_ be Don Felipe de la Vega. And so you are."

Felipe's jaw had dropped in stunned disbelief. "Re-really?" he asked, nearly choking it out, and when Diego reconfirmed it, Felipe's eyes dropped as he visibly struggled with the idea. The others gave him a moment, sharing a grin around the table, then Jaime raised his wooden wine cup again.

"To Don Felipe de la Vega!" he toasted, but unexpectedly, Felipe stopped him sharply with a raised hand.

"No! Wait!" He spluttered a moment, then looked back at Diego and made a decision, shaking his head. "Felipe... _Marco_... de la Vega."

"Marco?" Diego echoed in confusion. Where had _that _come from?

Felipe's mouth stretched in a grin that was suddenly almost shy behind his close-trimmed beard, and Diego was reminded forcibly of the boy he'd once been. "I think..." he began, then amended it, "I _believe_... that was the name my parents gave me." At Diego's astonished reaction, he told the story. "No, I don't have my memories back. I was walking down the street in some little town, not long after I left Los Angeles, and heard somebody shout, 'Ay, Marco!', and looked around, then realized they were calling somebody else. Then a moment later, it hit. _Marco?_" Felipe paused with the remembered bewilderment on his face. "But the more I thought about it, the more it... just... fit. Like I had heard it a million times, to me. So..." He shrugged eloquently. "It has to be my name."

"But you didn't start using it," Diego pointed out – the only name he had heard used (besides Capitán) was Felipe.

Felipe shook his head, and Diego was startled again to see an unshed tear. He explained quietly. "Because the next thought was, 'oh, I can't wait to tell Diego!' And then it hit me again, that I never would." He shrugged again. "So I kept using the name you gave me." Diego felt his own eyes water as he realized the implications that weren't being said. Felipe straightened up then with a sniff and looked around proudly. "But I think I will start using it as my middle name now. Felipe Marco de la Vega. I think it sounds good, don't you?"

"Absolutely!" Diego gave his benediction. Then, on a whim, he dipped his fingers into his cup of water. "I hearby christen you Felipe... Marco... de la Vega!" he proclaimed, dipping and flicking water thrice on his brother in time to the names.

Felipe winced but didn't duck, laughing. He turned to his wife and raised his wine cup to her. "_Doña_ Marianna."

She returned it. "_Don_ Felipe. I never doubted you for a minute." Apparently wanting to give him a moment, she turned to Diego. "I understand you attended university at Salamanca?"

The question out of the blue surprised him, but he recovered smoothly. "I did."

"Did you ever visit Valencia?" Her eyes were bright as she asked, and he remembered that was her own home town. On the way from Santa Blanca, Felipe had made a point of telling both him and Jaime in private about her terrible past with her physically abusive first husband, saying he wanted them to know (at least the broad outlines), but would never humiliate her by telling it in front of her.

"No, I didn't," he said now with real regret. "I understand it is one of the most beautiful cities in España." Of course she agreed with that assessment, graciously including Jaime in the conversation by describing it to him. Then she asked Diego what he had studied at university. "A broad range of subjects," he replied. "Science, history, arts, music, literature..."

She pounced on the last, eyes bright. "Did you ever have the chance to read _Don Quixote?_"

"I did! Did you?"

"Not completely," she said with real regret. "I started it, but... life..." she ended with an eloquent shrug.

And that's when Diego remembered. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a beaten, compact, leather-bound book and handed it to her. "Señora, it would give me great pleasure to present you with this, then."

Her astonished, delighted gasp was all he hoped for, and he fended off her gratitude for the book with grace, confirming that, although pocket-sized, it did indeed contain both complete volumes of the old novel in tiny print. Then he happened to catch Felipe's disbelieving – almost offended – stare from across the table.

"You have a copy... of _Don Quixote..._ in your pocket," the younger man, spreading it out in a flat, accusatory voice.

"Yes, I do."

Unsatisfied with that glib response, Felipe turned to Jaime, who was nearly busting a gut silently laughing. "He has a copy of _Don Quixote_ in his pocket," he repeated. Whatever sympathetic reaction he was hoping for, he didn't get it there, either.

"In my defense," Diego said reasonably, "I didn't bring it from Los Angeles. I happened to find it lying in a muddy street after a raid or something." He turned to Marianna. "Some of the pages are a little messed up, but it's still readable."

"Oh, that makes it _all_ better," Felipe said sarcastically, before he turned to his wife himself. "You're going to make me read that, aren't you?"

"No, I am not," she said archly, her eyes twinkling. "I am going to read it myself, and discuss it with your brother – when you are not around." She reached and placed the book carefully on the sideboard.

"Oh, _thank _you!" was his heartfelt response, hands raised to heaven.

"Besides," she added dismissively, "It's too advanced for you."

"Good!" Felipe declared, adding, "You're not roping me in that way!"

"What do you have against _Don Quixote?_" Diego was genuinely perplexed. Felipe had never reacted that way to any book.

"Watching you struggle through it for six months back in California!" Felipe shot back.

"Well that's because I had no one to discuss it with," Diego replied. He turned to Marianna, who was listening with open delight. "I'm very much looking forward to discussing it w–" Utterly unexpectedly, Diego's voice broke and tears sprang to his eyes. He buried his face in one hand, clenching the other into a fist, trying to tamp down the tsunami of emotion that had suddenly swamped him out of nowhere. He was aware of the silence, and knew each one was watching him concernedly. "I'm sorry," he finally managed, raising his head again. "It's just... this is the first time in three years... that I've felt like a civilized human being," he realized the truth of it as he spoke.

Felipe deliberately caught his eyes. "You're not the only one she has that effect on," he informed his brother softly, then picked up Marianna's hand and kissed it.

"All right, enough of this," Diego announced, desperately needing a change of subject. "I want to hear how _you_ got here, Felipe. Your story, _all_ of it, please. How and when did you get your voice back? How did you find out you know Italian?"

"Italian?" Jaime broke in, astonished. "What?"

Felipe laughed, then stared at the table a moment before snapping his fingers, and turned back to Jaime with several laughing sentences in that language. Diego was calm enough this time to be more certain of the identification, although he still couldn't grab any of the words. When Felipe did the stare and snap again, he broke in. "Why do you do that?"

Felipe struggled to explain. "It's like... I'm using two different parts of my brain... and I have to somehow switch back and forth between them. That's," he snapped his fingers again to demonstrate, "a trick I picked up somehow to do it. I can't tell you exactly what I'm doing or how. But I can only think and speak in one language or the other, not both – I can't translate. And I can't tell you now, in Spanish, what I just said in Italian. I have a sense of it, but not the words." He picked up his wine cup and took a big swallow to wet his mouth. "But let me back up, and tell it all in order."

And so he did, recounting the long story of everything that had happened to him from the time he left Los Angeles; the theft of Toronado (using the stallion's old name to begin with, Diego realized), the long run down the country after the thieves, finding the baby hawk he named Alaric, the repeated miracles – his word – of remembering Italian when he heard it out of the blue, and the language in turn unlocking his voice in first Italian and then Spanish. He didn't catch up to the thieves, he said, before they had sold all their several dozen stolen horses to the Army of New Spain in its headquarters camp on the north side of Mexico City. When he'd been caught in Toronado's stall, he'd been dragged out by the guards and taken to the Major who had bought the horse.

His listeners were spellbound. "What happened?" Diego breathed.

Felipe stared at him a moment, his face unreadable, then did something startling. He stood up, turned around, and pulled the back of his shirt up to his head. There, crisscrossing his back were the wide, ugly, telltale red welts and scars of an old flogging. Diego and Jaime were speechless. They both knew what it was.

"Ten lashes," Felipe commented calmly, pulling his shirt back down. "How many did you get?"

"Twenty-five," came not from Diego, but from Jaime. His voice was ragged, broken. Felipe turned swiftly to stare at him, bewildered at the change. Jaime lifted his face to the young man, wretched. "They put a gun to my head," he whispered his confession, miming the gun with one shaking hand. "They made me..." He couldn't finish the sentence. His face twisted as he sobbed.

Felipe's face was a study in horror and mirrored anguish. "They forced _you_ to lash _him?_" Jaime could only nod, then dropped his face in his hands.

Diego reached one long arm to put his hand gently on his friend's shoulder. "Jaime," his whisper was laden with emotion, "don't. Stop punishing yourself. You had no choice." He was wrestling with the shock of learning how heavily Jaime's unwilling part in his flogging still weighed on his friend, all these months later. He had hid it well, behind his constant cheerful demeanor.

He glanced back up at Felipe and flinched, finding his brother's face contorted with the old black fury. Felipe leaned over the table, pounding one fist down upon it. "_This_..." he hissed at Diego, "is why I _fight_. Because of men like _him,_" stabbing one finger at Jaime, "Because abominations like _that_... should _never_ happen!"

Diego held up his other hand as if to ward him off. "Felipe... I am not arguing with you." His voice shook under the onslaught.

Giving a low animal roar of fury and anguish, Felipe pushed off the table and whirled around, took the three steps to his open back door and stood there, smashing his fist again against the door frame, then fighting to calm down. Diego could see him dancing slightly from one foot to the other, as he'd seen the boy do so many times. He drew a breath to call him back, but then felt Marianna's hand on his arm. She shook her head quickly at him, then rose herself and walked softly to her husband's side, ducking under his arm. She peered up into his face for a second, then wrapped her arms around his waist and tucked her head into his neck, holding him tightly. Felipe breathed heavily a moment more, then brought his arms down one by one to hold her in return, and stood with her in the doorway.

_Silence is golden_, Diego told himself. He sat still, one hand still on Jaime's shoulder, and let the moments tick by, feeling the tension in the room very gradually seep away, down from unbearable to merely fraught.

After a few minutes, Marianna lifted her head again and looked wordlessly at Felipe, who nodded back as he lifted his cheek from her hair and released her. She ducked under his arm again and stepped back to the table, picked up the closest wine bottle and refilled Jaime's cup, then put her hand on his near shoulder. When he dropped his hands from his face and looked at her, she placed his cup in his left hand and said, as gently as ever Diego had heard anyone, "No one here blames you for what you were forced to do at gunpoint, mi hermano. Your death would have solved nothing, and you would not be here. You must forgive yourself."

"I forgave you as soon as it happened," Diego added at other his side. "And I would never have made it through without you – before or after."

"I keep trying to," Jaime managed after a moment, "but I can still feel the whip in my hand." He held up his right hand – the one he'd used.

"Then we must give it other things to do," she replied firmly, picking up an apple and putting it into that hand, adding, "beginning with this." After another moment, Jaime managed a very weak smile of gratitude.

Marianna lifted the wine bottle again and motioned towards Diego's cup, which he held up for her to fill. As she then attended Felipe's cup, her husband at last turned and stepped softly back to the table, calm again. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely to Diego. "I have so much anger, at all of this. But I had _no_ right to take it out on you. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Diego said simply. "It's already forgotten."

Felipe nodded, then turned to Jaime. "She's right. No one blames you, hermano." Jaime was able to nod.

"Now stop your shouting," Marianna scolded Felipe from his shoulder in her soft, cultured voice. "You'll frighten the horses." As all three men couldn't help but snort at that startlingly incongruous pair of statements, she returned to her chair with a tiny, satisfied smile.

Felipe took up the wine and refilled _her_ cup, then picked up his own and silently saluted her as he sat down again. "Where was I?"

"How the horse saved your life," Marianna responded instantly.

Everyone wanted to move on from what just happened, so he continued his story, telling how the guards had thrown him back into Toronado's stall after the flogging, expecting the "wild" stallion to trample him to death, when instead he stood guard over his young human friend all night. And the next morning, Felipe had been discovered there, once again, by the same Major who was trying to "break" Toronado.

"I'll never forget what he said," Felipe commented, then put on a high, sneering, nasally voice. "'So the devil horse likes him, eh? Good. Then _he_ can take care of it.'"

Diego had caught the significance. "Diablo caballo, eh?"

Felipe smiled. "Yes. At that moment, Toronado became Diablo to me, and he's been that ever since." He shrugged apologetically. "Toronado seemed so far away, like another life." Diego waved that away with a toast to the magnificent stallion, brave by any name.

Felipe continued his story – how he had gotten himself and Diablo away from the Army, and joined the partisans, and everything that happened after – until everything was told at last. Diego listened with growing admiration and wonder; realizing the truth of what Costa had told him – was it only that morning? – that his brother had not been a boy for a very, very long time. Jaime had slowly recovered his spirits as he listened, and when Felipe finished at last, he and Diego both filled in the gaps in their stories for their hosts. By then the sun was setting; they had talked the afternoon away.

After a lull, Diego looked across the table, assessing his feelings. "Capitán," he began, then stopped and grimaced. "Part of me wants to say, 'all right, I'm in.' But..."

"But most of you still wants to just sit in the sun for a few days," Felipe supplied with an easy answering grin, and waved a lazy hand outwards. "Go! Sit! Enjoy!"

"Is anyone living in that place up on the hill?" He pointed to the slope behind Felipe's house.

"Way up there near the rim? No. But it's just a tiny shack, and it's falling down."

"I can fix it," Diego laughed.

"Then it's all yours. Shall I send food up every day?"

"No, I'll come down. I still need to check on Selma every day, to see how her burned hands are healing."

Felipe nodded again, then screwed up his forehead, considering. "I'm going to need a report from you though, when you're done sitting in the sun," he said officiously.

"A _report?_ About _what?_" Diego couldn't decide between amused and outraged.

Amused won. "How many different kinds of birds you can see and hear up there from your perch," Felipe told him, mouth twitching. Diego spluttered, then snatched up the large nut he'd just shelled and aimed it at Felipe's forehead.

The Capitán was too quick, though; he grabbed it out of the air and popped it in his mouth, grinning, then turned to Jaime. "What about you, amigo? Have you made a decision?"

Jaime started to glance at Diego, who threw up a hand to forestall him. "Mi hermano, we are even. I would not have made it through without you," he repeated, "but now, it's over. We're out of that hell. As far as I'm concerned, all debts are paid." He paused for emphasis. "Each of us needs to do now what he feels in his heart is right, for himself."

Jaime looked at him a moment longer, then, nodded. "I would not have made it through that hell without you, either, mi hermano. It went both ways." He dropped his eyes to his damned right hand for a moment, then straightened as he turned back to Felipe. "You offered me a chance to fight for Mexico. For men like my father. And for myself. I want to do this. I would like to join your company, Capitán," he said quietly, but with unmistakable pride.

"Then welcome," said the Capitán simply, with a smile. He held out his hand to shake, but when Jaime responded, Felipe reached past with a grin and grasped Jaime's forearm instead. Even Diego, watching, couldn't deny the extra something that clasp added.

"Is there an oath to take?" Jaime asked with a small laugh. Surely it wasn't that easy?

"I don't believe in oaths," Felipe shook his head. "They're just words. I believe in actions. And you've already proven yourself."


	30. Chapter 30

**THIRTY**

A few days later, the afternoon sun was warming Diego as he sat on a short log, leaning against the front wall of his little rebuilt shack, watching as a figure climbed the steep slope towards him. He had no trouble recognizing Felipe – the large bird on his shoulder was a dead giveaway, even if he stopped halfway up and launched the hawk into the air. He stopped again a hundred feet away to call, "Mind if I join you? I bring gifts!" and held up a sack and a pair of wineskins enticingly.

"Of course I don't mind!" Diego replied with a broad smile, "And gifts aren't necessary – but always welcome."

The gifts proved to be food, of course – freshly baked bread and a couple of ears of roasted sweet corn, all still warm, and hard cheese to go with the wine (and water, in the other skin). Felipe stuck his head inside the shack for a moment to admire his brother's rough repairs, then lowered himself onto the log on the other side of the doorway, stretching his long legs out before him in a mirror pose. They ate the simple but delicious food in silence for a few minutes.

"This is nice," Felipe commented. "Peaceful."

Diego agreed. "That is surely the most beautiful valley I have ever seen, bar none. What's the name of it?"

Felipe shrugged. "We've always called it Lost Valley, or just the valley. Never heard any other name." He paused. "But I do agree on the beauty."

Spread beneath their feet, Valle Perdido ran only three miles slightly north of east to slightly south of west, half a mile from rim to rim at its widest point, where they sat. Forest carpeted the slopes above the floor, which followed the creek that had formed it and the only road – from "gate" to "gate" – along the bank. The rich bottomland was divided checkerboard fashion into fields for crops and pastures for their horses and a few cows, skipping the cantina and common areas in the middle. Small houses – most little bigger than Diego's shack – were scattered throughout. It was a magnificently bucolic scene, one which couldn't help but soothe the most troubled soul, even Diego's.

"Fifteen, by the way," he told Felipe out of the blue. When the younger man turned mystified eyes on him, he began counting off on his fingers. "Hummingbirds, doves, swifts..." all the way to fifteen, as Felipe cracked up, ending with: "and a collection of LBB's."

"LBB's?"

"Little brown birds," he informed him with all the self-assured airiness he'd ever possessed. "I've never bothered to learn to tell them apart." As Felipe guffawed anew, he added, "Oh! I forgot one. There's a very annoying little hawk that sometimes flies about."

"Ooooo," Hit, Felipe squirmed, then leaned over to request, "Don't shoot the hawk, please. I'm rather fond of it."

"Felipe... I think my hunting days are over. In fact, I doubt I'll ever shoot _anything, _ever again."

Felipe nodded, understanding. Then, "Are you turning vegetarian?"

"No. I still like eating meat. I guess that makes me a hypocrite."

Felipe shrugged eloquently. "Meh. Everyone's a hypocrite about something. The important thing is to understand yourself, to know _why_ you do _what_ you do. After that – it's nobody else's business."

Diego absorbed that. "What are you a hypocrite about?"

Felipe turned to stare, disbelieving. "Do you really have to ask me that?"

Realizing, Diego winced and laughed, throwing up his hands. "Sorry." They both turned back to the view and sat in companionable silence for a while, before Diego broke it again. "You were right the other day," he began. "I _had_ given up." He took a breath. "I told myself I was... just doing what I had to in order to survive. But – "

Felipe threw up a hand. _"No!_ Stop. Just stop right there." When Diego shot him a slightly outraged look, he struggled a bit before finding the words. "You told me something once, a _long_ time ago, that you've probably forgotten, but it's always stuck with me. I asked you why somebody had done something stupid – I can't remember who or what – but do you remember what you said?" Diego shook his head. "You said, _nobody_... _ever_... _deliberately_ makes a bad decision. _Everybody_, _all the time_, is just doing the best they can, making the best decision they can, based on two things." He held up his hand and ticked them off on thumb and forefinger. "One, what they know at the time. And two, what's most important to them. Even if one or both of those things changes, literally _five seconds_ later, it doesn't change that it was still the best decision they could make _at that moment._" He looked straight at his brother, then stabbed a finger. "You're no different. If you were doing what you had to do to survive, then that's what you were doing. Full stop. And it worked – you're here. And now you can make different decisions. But what you know now doesn't change what you had to do then. No buts."

Diego snorted softly, thinking. He still didn't remember saying any of that, but it seemed vaguely familiar. "No regrets, huh?"

Exasperated, Felipe shook his head at that. "No, that's not what I said. And not what _you_ said back then. _Everyone_ has things they regret, things they know better later. The trick is to _use_ those regrets, to try to make better decisions in the future. To remind you, to always do two things." Again, he ticked them off. "Always get as much information as you can, on everything, all the time. And always be thinking about what's most important. Sometimes it's short term, sometimes it's long term. But then, when you _do_ make a decision, even if it's a quick one," he snapped his fingers to demonstrate, "it's still a _good_ one, because you _have_ been thinking about everything."

Diego had to looked away. "When did you get so smart?" he asked, not at all sarcastically, but Felipe still snorted.

"I've had good teachers." He hooked a thumb at Diego, while gazing out over the valley. "You were the first."

Diego sat absorbing – reabsorbing – that for a minute. "But what do you do..." he murmured, "...to get over it?" Even he couldn't have said if that was rhetorical or not.

Nevertheless, Felipe shrugged. "Whatever good thing I can, big or little."

More time passed in companionable silence. "They broke me," Diego confessed quietly, compelled. "They broke me down to nothing. I never would have believed anyone could do that to me... back when I was... playing at Zorro. Playing at the hero, always knowing what to do, always winning. I never thought..." He picked up the wineskin and took a drink, just for something to do. "But they did. They turned me into a... mindless body, just following orders." His face twisted in memory. "And the hell of it is... they didn't really do it. I did it to myself. Trying to survive. Taking Jaime's advice to try not to think, to save something of myself. But I did it to myself."

"Does it matter?" Felipe put in inexplicably. "Even if you were the... the... Dammit," he spat softly, waving a hand before his eyes. "I can't think of the words sometimes. The mechanism," it came to him, "for doing it, it was to handle the situation _they_ created, that _they_ forced you into." He paused, thinking, then pointed down the hill towards the tiny pueblo. "If Jaime is not responsible for what he did with literally a gun to his head, then how are you responsible, just because the gun _wasn't_ literal? Hm?" he prompted after a second with no response.

Diego slowly nodded, but... "They put a gun into my hands, and told me to shoot. To kill other men, men who didn't want to be there, any more than I did. They weren't fighting for some cause, any more than me. But I did it." A long pause. "I must have killed... so many men over the months. I have no idea how many, and I never will, because I never looked past the end of my gun. I just pointed it when they told me to, and pulled the trigger." He stopped again, the enormity of it all swamping him yet again, as it had been doing those past days in the sun, with him struggling to come to grips with it, feeling like he was slowly waking up from a long, bloody nightmare. "Even if I wasn't ultimately responsible, even if I didn't see, don't know the count... I still have their blood on my hands. And I don't know... how I will _ever_... be able to wash it off."

Felipe slowly nodded. Diego thought fleetingly what a relief that was, just to have someone _understand._

"The greatest evil about war.. the greatest... tragedy," Felipe found the word he was looking for, then snorted. "Listen to me, sounding like a philosopher. I know nothing. Just a fighter. But I know this, deep in my bones. The greatest evil about war, is that the ones who are responsible for all of it, are never the ones who actually _do_ the killing, or the bleeding, or the dying. That's for the helpless idiots like you and me, and Jaime, and all the poor bastards in the other line. But men like... Colonel Villanueva," he spat out the name, ignoring the honorific _de_, "they never pay. He was never told, 'you can't do that', after he _massacred_ a_ whole village_. He was never punished. Hell, he was _promoted_ after that. And he just carried on... until he died of a heart attack a few years later." He sat, stewing, then turned back to Diego. "_This_ is why I fight for Mexico. Because I want to see everyone like him kicked out of this country. I want... the men in charge, in government, in the army, to have to _answer_ to someone – to the _people_ of this country. I want there to be someone to tell men like that Colonel, 'no.' " It was all the more effective for it being said so quietly. "To tell him, 'you can't do that. You can't just kill... _anybody_. Take off that uniform. You are no longer in command. Now it's your turn against the wall.'" He shrugged. "Or in prison. Or chained to an oar in a galley. I don't give a fuck what happens to him, as long as he is _punished._" Another long pause. "There has to be someone to tell men like that, 'no.' " He shrugged eloquently. "Until that happens, in this little corner, in these mountains, that someone is me."

Several minutes passed in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts of what he had done. Without warning, Alaric suddenly swooped down and landed on the toe of Felipe's boot, dropping a dead squirrel on his outstretched legs.

"Really?" his master asked, disgusted. He leaned over without disrupting the bird and picked up the squirrel. "There. I touched it. Now you can eat it, preferably somewhere out of sight." He flung the carcass as far around the side of the shack as he could, and the hawk launched himself after it. The two men shared a glance and a rueful snort before returning to their respective studies of the view.

A minute later, Felipe glanced at Diego again, then twisted around to lean through the open door again. He peered closely at the ceiling, and the rebuilt walls. "You did a good job," he approved. "It hasn't rained to test it, but it looks like there will be no leaks." As he straightened back up, he came face-to-face with Diego's disbelieving stare at this wild change of tone and subject. "You asked what I do," Felipe told him with soft directness. "This is what I do." Facing forward again, he waved a hand at the valley below. "The best I can, at whatever good thing I can, big or little." Taking a deep breath, he began listing them. "I helped rebuild the houses here, that were falling apart when we came, like this one. I work in the fields, planting and harvesting." He paused. "I do my best to look after the men who decided to follow me. I try _not_," he added sourly, "to lead them into traps. I look after their families, protect them. I protect others who live in these mountains, do whatever I can to help them. My men and I sometimes... help farmers with their harvest, or moving sheep. We helped rebuild walls in Santa Blanca after the little earthquake last year knocked them down." Another long pause, then he changed direction. "Or I do little things. Even... carving a cup that I can drink out of. Or making a chair. Or fixing the door I busted the other day during the attack. Or taking my turn helping prepare food. I'm learning how make bread – I made this bread," he ended on a tiny note of pride, pointing to their mostly-eaten loaf.

"Ah," Diego said, pretending to pull something tiny off his tongue and flick it away. "I thought I tasted a whisker." He turned a dry face back to his brother.

Felipe's face slowly split into a grin, then a delighted laugh spilled out. He pointed at Diego. "Now _there's_ that mouth I remember!" Finally, Diego began chuckling along with him.

Sobering, Felipe gave Diego a steady look. "I do every good thing I can, and put it on that side of the scale. And I hope that someday... it evens out. That's all I _can_ do." He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, raising his face to the sunshine.

Diego did likewise, thinking of cosmic scales that measured the good and bad a person had done. Did all the good he had done before, all his actions as Zorro, even make the slightest dent in the last three years? He doubted it. He had a hell of a lot of atonement to do, and felt he'd be working on it the rest of his life. He sighed, lowering his face again.

"So tell me, Capitán. What is it you had in mind for me?" He glanced sideways, and explained. "You said you could make a place for me that wouldn't require me to fight. The last week aside, I rather doubt there's enough work for a doctor – at least I hope not."

"Not full time, no." Felipe gave him a close look, considering. "I did have something in mind, but I don't know now. It's up to you, if you think you can handle it." At Diego's puzzled look, he asked, "Are you still all right with defense? Could you take up arms, if you were attacked, and defend yourself – and others – with lethal force if necessary?"

A corner of his mind admired the young man who so often struggled for words for the precision of that little speech, but then he dismissed it and faced the question directly. Finally, he nodded. "Yes. I believe so. I defended myself – us – on that mountain, after all. I took care of two of the attackers." But now he was only more confused. "But what...?"

"I want to put you in charge of the defense of our valley. None of us wants to leave, and I don't believe we are in any greater danger of discovery than before." The question had been asked that first evening, Diego remembered, and it was determined from many clues that the soldiers had been rogues, deserters, who had not told anyone else of their home. "But we desperately need to strengthen our defenses," Felipe went on. "We kept all the guns and ammunition from the soldiers. And I plan to hand it out to the women, and have them learn to use them." He paused, glancing away, something eating at him. "I tried... I tried to teach Marianna how to load and fire a gun, but I couldn't do it. It wasn't her," he waved a hand immediately to erase the thought that hadn't even occurred to Diego, "it was me. I cannot... _stand_... the sight of her with a gun in her hands. Of all the things she should be holding, a gun... is _not_ one." His broken whisper spoke even more eloquently of his distress than the words. He shook his head to clear it, then turned back to Diego. "I can't teach her. But she needs to learn – all of them do, those who don't already know. Can you teach them? And drill them, so they can stand and fire in defense of their homes, if it's ever needed again?"

"I can do that, yes," Diego said softly.

"And can you come up with..." Felipe gave an exasperated snort again. "What's the word... plans for just in case?"

"Contingency plans," Diego supplied, then explained the word, and Felipe repeated it once or twice.

"Can you come up with contingency plans for the valley? Not just for when the company is gone, but when we are here? I want to have you in charge of defense all the time, for two reasons." As before, he ticked them off on thumb and forefinger. "One, so there is never any confusion – 'who do I look to?' And two..." He broke off with a rueful grin. "I am _terrible_ at defense. Attack I can do, but to defend, a patch of ground?" He shook his head. "All I know if we're attacked is – Run! until we can turn and counterattack."

"That's not a bad plan," Diego said, but Felipe shook his head.

"Not for men on horseback, but for a place? Homes? By the time we stopped and turned, the whole valley would be up in flames." He turned back to Diego. "That's why I need you. Can you do this? Can you help us?"

Diego slowly nodded. "I can do that. And I won't crumble, if we ever _are_ attacked."

Felipe nodded back, a smile starting. "Thank you," he said with quiet emphasis, meaning it. Then, he sighed. "That brings me to the next thing. We'll need to get that started." He paused, shooting Diego an apologetic look. "We'll be riding out again in a few days. So I need you to come down off your mountain, and stay down. Tomorrow?"

Diego snorted as he nodded. "Tomorrow. I'll come down for breakfast, and stay."

"I want to take you all around the valley, show you every part of it, so you know it. And make sure you've met everyone, and that everyone knows what you will be doing, so there are no questions about it."

"Sounds good." As he looked down, the practice ring caught Diego's eyes, and he gestured at it. "Are you going beat my ass up in the practice ring again?" he asked wryly.

Felipe laughed, then shook his head. "No. But thank you for reminding me. That's another thing I meant to ask you." He bobbed his head deferentially, to Diego's astonishment. "I've learned a lot since you started teaching me all those years ago, but you're still a _much_ better swordsman than me – better than Costa, too; he said so. He told me that when you get loosened up, and remember everything, he'll not have a chance against you. So... I would like to ask you to teach me again. There's always more to learn. Will you?"

"I'd be honored," Diego managed after a moment. He hadn't thought to feel that quiet pride again, and was grateful to his brother for giving it to him.

"Thank you." Felipe glanced at the sun, easing towards the horizon now. "I'd better be getting back down home." As he started to get up, he had another thought. "We need to find you some place to sleep down there, too." He leaned over to Diego with a wicked grin adding, "Not in my bed," before he whipped away and up.

Diego's jaw dropped, mortally offended. "Now _that..._ was _completely_ uncalled for!"

Felipe turned, actually blushing while he chuckled. "You're right. I'm sorry," he said meekly.

"No, you're not," Diego accused him. "You're _enjoying_ needling me, aren't you?"

That got another chuckle and an admission. "Now that I can, yeah." Felipe shrugged, putting on an guileless expression. "Isn't that a little brother's job, to be annoying?" He smirked, somewhat ruining the effect.

"You know what the big brother's job is? Beating the crap out of his annoying little brother!" Diego threatened, chin thrust out, pulling a fist back.

Felipe laughed outright, dropping back a pace and lifting both hands to beckon Diego in. "Any time!"

"No thank you," came the sour response. "I don't have a death wish." After all he had witnessed, he had the distinct impression that the seasoned fighter could probably whip his ass for real if he wanted to, even with a sword.

Felipe dropped his hands and stood straight, then glanced up at the roof of the shack. He whistled, then waved his right arm in a large arc. "Alaric! Home!" Obedient for once, the hawk launched himself and swooped downslope.

"Ah," Diego murmured. "I was wondering where he'd got to."

Dropping his eyes again, Felipe gazed on his brother fondly. "Hasta mañana, mi hermano."

Diego slowly grinned back and nodded. "Buenas noches, mi hermano."


	31. Chapter 31

**THIRTY-ONE**

The following morning found Diego giving Felipe the first of his promised renewed lessons in the sword. He had walked up to the practice yard after their tour of the valley to find the young man already there, going through his warm-up routine. "I recognize some of those steps," Diego commented, "but not many. Where did you learn the others?"

"I put them together," Felipe replied, coming to a stop. "Some from moves I learned with a sword, some from others."

"Teach them to me?"

"All right," Felipe shrugged, and started over, going step by step. Diego had to admit that by the time they were done, he was _loose._ He needed a better idea of what Felipe already knew, so they began sparring, taking turns attacking and defending. They managed a good twenty minutes of stalemate before one of them finally scored – Diego flicked his wrist in a move his own instructor had used on him – to his chagrin – knocked Felipe's sword aside, and tagged him on the shoulder.

Felipe groaned. "All right!" Resignation and determination both. "What was that?"

"Pay him! Pay him!" came from the fences – they had gathered a small audience without realizing it. It went on a few more times before Felipe snapped, irritated.

"Knock it off! I'm broke!" He gestured towards Diego with his sword. "Besides, in six months I'm going to owe him a fortune! What _was _that?"

Diego laughed, enjoying this. Taking his practice sword hilt in both hands, he put the point in the dust. "Tell you what, Felipe. Let's make this reciprocal."

"What?" Felipe asked flatly, obviously not knowing the word.

"Reciprocal. That means it goes both ways. When you tag _me_, I owe _you_ a peso. And in six months, if we're not pretty close to even... Either I'm not as good a teacher as I think _I_ am, or you're not as good a student as you think _you_ are."

"Ooooo," Felipe acted wounded. "_In_sults! All right, you're on. It'll be the first," he added pointedly.

"_Prove_ it!"

"_Teach!_ What _was_ that?"

And so Diego got _his_ first lesson in Felipe's single-mindedness, as he was made to repeat the move again, and again, and again – Felipe calling Costa in after the second time to take his place, claiming he couldn't see it from that angle. As soon as he caught on, he switched with Diego, and subjected poor Costa to repetition after repetition, faster and faster, until finally Costa called a halt. "My arm is tired!"

That didn't save him, though, because Felipe simply switched, making Costa learn the move himself. _Then_ he asked Diego how to guard and counter it. Diego admitted he had none, so nothing would do but he had to repeat it, extra slowly, again and again, until Felipe came up with a countermove himself. And then practiced _that_ a couple of dozen times. Before long, more than an hour had passed on this one single move. "Enough!" Diego cried, laughing and rubbing his own arm.

"I told you!" Costa said drily.

"All right, all right, sorry!" Felipe laughed, and asked if they could spar a bit more. "What was that word again?" he asked a few minutes later.

"Reciprocal."

Felipe repeated it a couple of times to get it into his head, and then suddenly, without giving any telltale signs that Diego saw, lunged past Diego's blade and tagged _his_ shoulder. "Reciprocal," Felipe repeated with satisfaction. "We're even." Costa was not the only one to laugh aloud from the sidelines.

Even Diego had to join in. "All right, all right. Your turn then. Show me that kick you used. Please."

Felipe looked askance for a moment. "Show you, or teach you?"

Diego was puzzled. "Teach me."

Felipe heaved a big sigh, looked away, then back. "No," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. You've gotten entirely too stiff the last few years, and you know it. You'll... pull a muscle, or a tendon... or dislocate a hip if you try something like that."

"You're right," Diego admitted ruefully. He did know it. "All right, _show_ me then. I promise I won't try it. But I'm curious."

Felipe agreed to that after a moment, and had one of the men toss a wooden practice knife to Diego, then had him hold it steady, chest high. "One: weight on both feet, be sure of the distance. Two: start to turn right, bend your torso, push off a bit with your left foot." On he went, through the entire count, slowly, describing each move as he went, pointing out how both his torso and his right – kicking – foot were parallel to the ground at the height of the kick. He ended up back on both feet, "and you can use the momentum to bring your left hand around, empty or with a weapon." Then, calling heads up to warn the onlookers, he did it again at speed, almost faster than Diego could have counted the numbers off, and the wooden dagger went flying.

"I admit: that's impressive," Diego commented sincerely, and Felipe grinned.

"Enough!" Costa put in, already turning to go down the hill. "Dinner!"

Felipe angled off towards his own house to collect Marianna, while Diego trailed down the hill after Costa. Many of the men who had gathered to watch greeted him with smiles and jokes before drifting away, then Costa, near the bottom of the hill, glanced back at him, then stopped and waited. "What's that puzzled look for, de la Vega?"

"Everyone is behaving much differently toward me than before," Diego commented mildly.

Costa snorted. "You can thank your brother and your friend for that." As Diego then stopped and stared, mystified, he went on. "Felipe has been at pains to let everyone know the actual reason you were up against the wall: because you refused to join in a massacre."

"Well, start a forest fire," Diego protested, but was cut off.

"Same thing. A hundred people live in that valley. If they hadn't been killed outright, they would have been burned out. Same difference. But that makes you a protector of the mountains, same as us."

Diego hadn't thought about it in such bald terms before. He filed it away to think about later, before asking – with some trepidation, "And Jaime?"

Costa grinned. "He's been telling stories about you once being... what was it? Zorro?"

"Oh, no," Diego groaned. _Why did I leave him here unattended?_

"Is it true?" Costa pushed.

"Well, I don't know exactly what stories he's been telling, but... yes, I was Zorro. That sure seems like a _very_ long time ago now." He couldn't escape the automatic twinge at the admission, but what could it hurt in this situation? That cat was well and truly out of the bag back home.

"Well, there you go. That's why." Costa summed up, then turned to get his dinner, leaving Diego standing in the street with his head spinning.

A few minutes later, sharing a table with all of them, Diego cornered Jaime. "What have you been saying about me?"

"Nothing!" Jaime tried for innocent. "Just that... you used to help people, up north."

"You said I was Zorro."

"The name may have slipped out, but... people way down here don't know it. The stories never made it this far south." Jaime dismissed the whole thing.

"They do now," Diego capped it off ruefully, turning to glare across the table at his equally unrepentant younger brother across the table.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" He gestured to himself and Jaime with his fork. "Neither one of us has said a word that was not true. I know you don't like bragging, but sometimes you should."

"Why?" Diego asked sourly. "When I've got you two to do it for me?" Wanting to change the subject, he leaned forward to ask quietly, "How is Javier, by the way?" referring to the young teenager who had lost his father during the attack – his last relative, Diego had learned.

Felipe shrugged, not without compassion. "I haven't actually seen much of him the last few days. He's been keeping to himself."

"I'll look in on him while you're gone; try to bring him out," Diego volunteered, and Felipe nodded gratefully.

"Capitán?" said a voice behind Diego, from the middle of the patio.

Felipe looked up, surprised. "Or not," he murmured, puzzling Diego, until he too turned around. It was Javier, fully dressed and armed to the teeth: a large knife stuck through his belt, an ammunition bandolero over one shoulder, cradling a rifle in his arms. They looked odd on his slight frame; although the fourteen-year-old had reached his full height, he had a lot of filling out to do. But the look on his face was as determined as any man's.

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Costa added in a very low voice.

"I want to join the guerrilleros," the boy said steadily to the Capitán. "I want to fight."

Diego turned back to stare at Felipe, who was looking the teenager up and down. The entire patio – nearly all the residents of the pueblo – had gone silent, watching and listening.

"Your father stayed behind, acted as our lookout, because he did not want you to fight," Felipe said levelly.

"And now he is dead," returned Javier, plainly, stating a simple fact. "He gave his life to protect us. Even though it didn't work, that doesn't change what he did." He swallowed. "You always say, everyone must do what he thinks is right. I want to fight," he ended simply.

Felipe nodded slowly, astounding Diego. _He's not actually __considering__ this, is he? _

"Do me one favor, please," Felipe said. "Put the gun away." He threw up a hand, forestalling any protest. "I'm not taking it from you. But there's no need for any of us to be carrying guns around the valley. Put it in your house... and then meet me down by the horses, and we'll talk."

Javier hesitated, then nodded. "Si, Capitán." He turned to go, but Felipe called after him.

"Have you eaten?"

"No," Javier admitted.

Felipe smiled. "Then I'll bring dinner for both of us." Javier nodded again and left. As Felipe stood, gathering his plate and tankard of beer, Diego reached out and grabbed his arm.

"You're not serious, are you? He's a _kid!"_

"So was I!" Felipe's reply was suddenly just short of a snarl. "Not much older, bloody back, and twice an orphan." He stared at Diego, his eyes flat as a snake's. "Don't tell me my job."

Diego watched him walk away in silence, astonished. He turned back to Marianna, but got no support there: she was staring primly at her own plate as she took dainty bites. He didn't bother looking around at anyone else, but choked down the rest of his meal in silence. Every time he felt he was getting his equilibrium back these days, he realized, something like this happened to knock him off balance again.

No one left the area around the cantina over the next hour; talking and laughing as they relaxed for one more afternoon. At last, Felipe and Javier came walking back together, as friendly as could be. Diego knew with a sinking heart what the decision had been.

"Miguel!" Felipe called. Miguel was one of the fighters who had lost his partner to the cavalry attack. "Would you be willing to take Javier as partner? Teach him whatever you can?"

Miguel looked at the boy and nodded with a smile. "Sure. No problem."

"Miguel all right with you?" Felipe asked Javier, getting another nod. "I want to make sure there is no misunderstanding," Felipe then raised his voice and looked around, making sure he had everyone's attention. He kept the same volume even as he turned slightly and addressed the boy. "I'm keeping you out of combat, until you and I both agree you are ready for it." He paused, assessing. "Will you argue with me about that?"

Javier had sucked in a deep breath at the stricture, but kept his face impassive and shook his head. "No, Capitán. I will follow your orders."

Felipe hesitated one more second, making sure, then nodded with finality. "Then welcome," he said, stretching out his right hand. Javier gripped his Capitán's forearm and returned the shake with pride.

"Javier picked out a horse from the invaders," Felipe told Miguel. "Help him find the right saddle from the pile, then go over all the tack with him, and all his gear. Make sure he's ready for the morning."

Miguel nodded sharply. "Come on," he told Javier with a grin, and the two new partners turned away.

Walking back into the cantina patio with the two dirty plates and shared tankard, Felipe put them in the window, then said sideways to Costa nearby, "Was I that green?"

"No," Costa replied affably, then knocked him down with, "You were greener." Felipe groaned softly, struck, and Costa added, "He already knows things you didn't."

"Good for him," Felipe commented ruefully, trying to be positive. Turning the other way to leave, he stopped at Diego's side, not looking at him. "I know you're disappointed. And I'm sorry. I wish it wasn't that way." He paused, then added, "But this is my world. And he has the right to determine his own path in it."

"He's a _child._"

"No, he's not," Felipe flatly contradicted him. "He's not a grown man yet, but he's not a child any more." Turning at last, he looked over his shoulder at the man who had raised him. "Don't make that mistake again." With that, he walked on.

Shocked, Diego stared at Felipe's back, Costa's words about the Capitán ringing in his ears. "I'm not sure he was _ever_ a boy." _Was I that wrong about you?_


	32. Chapter 32

**THIRTY-TWO**

Two things surprised Diego about life in the valley – although in later retrospect, he wondered why they did. The first was how communally they all lived. Aside from a few personal possessions, everything belonged to the entire group, and all labor, responsibilities, and products were freely and equally shared.

There was a definite pattern and rhythm to the days, and Diego spent the first few days after the company of guerrilleros rode out adjusting and sinking in to it. Each of the dozen and a half women in the pueblo had primary responsibility for certain of the fields and livestock, and the mornings were spent tending them separately or in pairs, while one of the wives – often Sara – watched all the children except the tiniest babies, so as to let their mothers work. One other man besides Diego, Paulo, was a full-time resident of the valley; there had been two, with old Marquez, the cantina owner who had died in the invasion. Diego had convinced Felipe not to leave any lookouts behind, as a gesture of trust that the women could and would learn to protect the pueblo in their absence.

Around noon, they all gathered at the cantina for the main meal of the day, just as when the guerrilleros were at home, and then stayed on the patio through the afternoon with the myriad of more sedentary tasks. He would come to learn that the rhythm of the days didn't change, whether the company was there or not; only the precise activities did. But scattered, active labor in the morning, a big meal at noon, then quieter tasks through the long afternoon on the patio, all marked every day. Of course, animals had to be tended each morning and evening, too: cows always needed regular milking. Most of the milk went to butter and cheese; two of the women were experts on those subjects.

For that matter, most of the residents of Valle Perdido had grown up on farms, and many had run their own before joining the company, so the valley did not lack for that expertise. As with the poor everywhere, the vast majority of the women's labors were geared towards food production. Over half of the plowed fields were planted with corn mixed with a variety of beans and squashes; the rest grew an astonishing array of vegetables, from the ubiquitous onions, tomatoes, and chilis, down to various greens, pungent garlic, and potatoes and other roots. A few productive fruit and nut trees, apparently planted by the now-vanished farmers who had originally settled the valley many years before, also dotted the landscape. Their diets were supplemented, Diego had learned, by regular hunting expeditions and scattered game traps, as well as contributions from many of the villages around them in gratitude for their protection – the wagons they had brought with them from Santa Blanca were just an example. Felipe had been at pains to point out to his brother the completely voluntary nature of those contributions; the company and its commander did not engage in extortion. But the foodstuffs were definitely needed; the contributions, often sent up in wagons if not carried behind the partisans on their horses, were usually of things they could not easily grow themselves and had no money to buy, from big bags of various grains, some ground to flour, to non-food items such as lamp oil and leather.

The first day, after the meal was finished and cleaned up, and the women began setting up their next tasks, Marianna called all the children older than the youngest toddlers together from their mothers and sat them at a central table with a bag of small wooden tiles – each with single letters printed on them – and the two or three battered books they possessed. She was teaching the children to read. After running them through a chant of the alphabet, pointing to large, clearly-visible alphabet tiles hanging from the rafters around the edge of the roof, which Diego hadn't noticed until then, they turned to the books and little tiles. Marianna looked over her shoulder with a smile. "Don Diego, would you hear Sofia, please?" He hadn't noticed until that moment that the brassy redhead was also holding a bible.

"Oh, I'm... not very good," she tried to demur, obviously embarrassed. "I'm just learning."

"Well, that's fantastic!" he gushed a bit in encouragement. "I'm all in favor of _everyone_ learning to read – at whatever age! It's the single most important thing you can do to improve your mind and your life."

"Why?" one of the others asked, mystified.

"Because if you can read, then the entire world of knowledge lies open before you!"

"As long as you can get your hands on the books," Marianna observed dryly, and he had to agree.

"True, but if you can't read first, then the books do you no good."

"Some of us are too old for that," put in Juanita, the oldest of the women there by far and set in her ways. "That's for children." Paulo, her husband, had disappeared again after the meal on his own business.

"That's not true," Diego told her kindly. "_Anyone_ can learn to read, at _any_ age. It is true that children have an easier time learning, because they're doing it all the time, but anyone can still learn. I once knew a man in his sixties who learned to read."

"You mean..." this was from a timid younger woman, whose name Diego hadn't caught yet. "... even I could learn?"

"Teresa Bona!" Surprised, Diego swiveled around to see Marianna giving the woman a severe glare, hands on her hips. "You already do!" She gave her no time to react, spreading her glare around the group. "_All_ of you do!" More than one jaw dropped at that startling pronouncement. "You've all been sitting here for _months_, watching and listening to your children learning the alphabet. I'll bet every one of you can say it yourselves!" She turned back to Teresa, stepping over under the big letter A on the rafter and pointing to it. "Go on! What's the first letter? Shh!" she hushed the children aside. "Well?" she prompted Teresa.

"A?" Very tentative.

"Next? Go on!"

One at a time at first, then faster as she realized that she actually _did_ know them, Teresa read off each letter, her eyes, growing round with astonishment at her own knowledge. Diego, standing back, hid his grin with one hand.

Marianna whipped back to the children's table and quickly grabbed and arranged a handful of letter tiles. "And what does this say? Read it!"

Teresa, mouth gaping, stepped over there and looked, slowly sounding it out as she must have heard the children do a million times. "Te... Teresa!" Her face was full of complete astonishment. "It's my name! I can read my name!"

Marianna applauded then, pride shining on her face. Then she stepped back again and swept the rest of the group with her glance. "All of you! Say the alphabet, together! I know you can! Come on!" Teresa led them, more confident now. Diego noticed that not everyone joined in – Juanita, for one, simply sat, lips pressed together, shaking her head. But most of the others did, as astonished at themselves as Teresa had been. They _had_ absorbed the children's lessons, all unknowing.

After they reached Z, Diego took his hand away from his mouth and let loose a loud, joyous laugh and applauded the women, and the children joined in, congratulating their mothers and "aunts". Then Diego glanced over and laughed again – Marianna had "retired" to lean against a wall, very elaborately ignoring them all, fanning herself with a piece of paper and looking archly at the ceiling – but he saw a tiny, pleased smile teasing the corners of her mouth. He stepped over to her. "Professora de la Vega. Congratulations." And gave her his most elegant, courtly bow.

Marianna's eyebrows shot up, and she pushed herself off the wall and, turning, returned his courtesy with the deepest, most graceful formal curtsy he had ever witnessed. "Thank you, Señor." She wobbled just a bit while rising and added with a bubbly giggle, not at all ruining the effect, "Oh my! It _has_ been a long time since I've done that!"

"Were you presented at court?" he couldn't help asking – that curtsy had been fit for bowing before the king.

"No, never," she replied. "But I was properly taught, just in case!" With that, she returned to the table, gathering the women around, and built on their triumph (with the children's happy assistance) by presenting each of them with their names spelled out in tiles. Then she took Sofia's bible and turned it to an easy passage, the Beatitudes, and asked Sofia to hear each of them take one or two verses in turn. As the women returned to their work, proudly chattering, Marianna turned at last to the children and led them through passages in their books. Diego decided to take himself to Juanita, humbly asking if he could help whatever she was doing (shelling nuts, it turned out).

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. "So you can laugh at me, _Don_ Diego?"

"Why would I laugh at you?" he returned – a bit disingenuously. He knew exactly what she meant. "I was raised to treat _everyone_ with respect; man, woman, or child."

Juanita snorted. "That's a new one! A hildalgo lowering himself like that!"

"Respect does not mean subservience, Señora," he corrected the older woman gently. "I'm neither above you, nor below you – especially here. I believe we are all equals; just human beings, trying to get through our lives as best we can, in very difficult – albeit beautiful – circumstances." His spread arms paid homage to the lovely valley. She was still eyeing him suspiciously, so he went on. "Everyone has special talents, that deserve respect. I'd like to know what your talents are, if you'd be so kind as to tell me."

"Juanita makes the trail bars our men eat. Did you have some?" put in the woman sharing her table.

"Really?" Diego's face lit up. "Yes, I did – they were delicious! How do you do it? I'd really like to know!"

After a bit more gushing, she finally began – still suspicious at first, then slowly warming as he did not mock her – to tell him. Not only had she come up with the idea originally, but every day she prepared a batch, storing them up for the guerrilleros to take with them on campaign, each of them carrying a three-week supply (one each day) in their saddlebags.

It was a long process altogether, as the many different ingredients required preparation in advance. Every day Juanita cooked a pot of grains to tenderness, cooled and fluffed them to dry completely, rolled them flat with her rolling pin on a flat, square stone, then toasted them in a big iron pan on the cantina stove until each flattened grain was browned and aromatic. Fruits and vegetables were peeled, chopped fine, and spread on cloth racks to dehydrate – Diego was flabbergasted when he was finally taken up to the top of the two-story cantina: the entire roof contained stacks of these racks, and was completely covered with a fine rope-and-string-and-stick netting to keep off the birds while letting the sunshine through to do its job drying food. Nearly anything came in for this treatment, as they had no other means of food preservation other than a busy smokehouse: finely chopped meats from said smokehouse, both game and domestic; fish caught in weirs in the stream; fruits and vegetables; the corn and beans they harvested twice yearly. One corner was reserved for malting and then drying some of the bags of wheat and barley they received, preparing it for brewing beer in the cantina below – this particular process itself was under the supervision of Juanita's husband, Paulo, who had "retired" (Diego would find out) from the partisans years before, staying behind now to farm and brew full-time.

Back on the patio, Juanita showed Diego how it all went together. Taking a big scoop – about a quart, he estimated – of chopped nuts, dried meat, and dried fruit, she mixed them together with the day's toasted grains in a very large bowl, then slowly drizzled honey over it, having him do this mixing with his hands, until there was just enough honey to stick every bit together. Then she had him divide it into two large wooden flats, each nearly two feet by three (laughing at the sight of a man working with food, which he happily ignored), before spreading and compressing the mixture with the rolling pin, evening it out and working it into the corners. Finally, she took a knife, honed it sharp, and swiftly cut it into bars, long practice making each one nearly exactly the same size. The flats then went up into the drying room on the roof. Finished flats, dried out to chewiness but not enough to chip a tooth after two or three days, were brought down, the bars pulled apart from each other, and stacked into a large wooden crate, separated by green leaves plucked from some of the nearby shade trees. Each day's batch would be slightly different, Juanita explained, as the exact ingredients changed: the type of grain, meat/fish, nut, and fruit/vegetable varied, of course, by what was ready. The real genius, she added proudly, was in choosing things that went together well, and adding bits of herbs or chilis as appropriate. But that only meant the fighters wouldn't get bored eating the exact same thing every day. Diego couldn't argue with any of it, snagging and enjoying one of the bars being packed away.

When that was finished, so were the lessons; the women had all returned to their various tasks – much of them involving the early stages of preparing food, only a fraction of it eventually going into the bars, while others worked on clothing, or the myriad of other things that all must be done by hand on a small rural farm far from any city. The children had likewise been dismissed, the older ones helping their mothers while the younger ones played together under watchful eyes. Sofia brought it to a halt by sighing. "Well, Señor? What about the guns?"

Recalled to his promise, Diego fetched the rifles confiscated from the invaders – as well as scavenged from many previous battlefields; not all of them had been left for the locals – from where they were stored upstairs in the cantina, and began the careful process of teaching his new students how to respect, clean, load, and fire the dreadful things.


	33. Chapter 33

**THIRTY-THREE**

Early one afternoon a little over two weeks later, Capitán de la Vega led his company into the valley from the west gate, riding in two columns along the road beside the stream. Not a soul was in sight, and Felipe was getting visibly concerned about it when his brother Diego came strolling casually out from the cantina patio. Diego stopped in the road and let the company ride up to him, then held up a hand to stop them, grinning broadly.

When they had all halted, sitting their horses quietly and curiously, before Felipe could say a word, Diego filled his lungs and hollered, "Now!" On every side, the women of the valley popped up in windows, over the edge of the cantina roof, out from behind houses, walls, and outbuildings, each and every one pointing a very lethal rifle at the double column of their men, who stared back at them, some grinning, some laughing, some shocked. Diego let himself notice young Javier riding beside his partner Miguel, and felt a twinge of relief. He'd already counted horsemen; the number matched the ones who had left.

"Fire warning!" Diego yelled, and every second woman raised her rifle to the sky and fired off a shot into the air, then brought it down and immediately reloaded, while their sister stood beside them unmoving, keeping her rifle trained on the men. Felipe missed that part, busy calming Diablo down as he reared, neighing in protest of the unexpected battle noise in his home valley – and he wasn't alone: every horse at least shifted nervously. Safely back on all fours, Felipe decided to hold his hands up and yell, "We surrender!", somehow managing to keep his face straight.

Diego laughed, and gave the final order, "Stand down!" The women did so, disappearing back inside their respective buildings and coming out a moment later, unarmed, walking with brisk, proud strides and wide grins to greet their men.

"I'm impressed!" Felipe told Diego, and his face showed it.

Diego held up his hand again before Felipe could dismount, then pointed silently back to the west. When Felipe and many others looked, they saw a column of black smoke rising up from beyond the ridge. "Both villages now have hidden smudge pots, that they will light whenever anyone rides through on their way here, to warn us. That one let us know you were on the way." Stepping closer to Diablo, he lowered his voice. "And with both villages acting as lookouts, we don't need to waste our men on the task. I'm not speaking ill of the dead, but I'm convinced sheer boredom contributed to their... inattention during the attack."

"Now I'm _really_ impressed," Felipe said after a beat, nodding his agreement with Diego's assessment. "Thank you."

"Don't thank just me. I didn't do all this myself. All of us worked together to come up with every detail."

"I stand corrected," Felipe admitted, before raising his voice a notch. "Señoras! Good work, all of you! Thank you! We'll sleep much better, from now on!" he added a touch lower. Then he noticed their empty hands. "Where are the guns?"

"None of us wanted to carry them around here all the time, so we've made a number of caches of rifles and cartridges, in every building, out of reach of small hands," Diego told him. "And by the way, they do _not_ rely on my command. The first one to notice danger – anyone – yells out 'alarm!', and that one is in command until they verbally pass it off, or the danger is past."

With a look of impressed wonder on his face, Felipe finally swung his leg over Diablo's back, then stepped forward to shake Diego's hand, reaching past it as he always did to clasp his brother's forearm. "Thank you," he said quietly, meaning it, then grinned impishly. "I _knew_ you were the right man for the job." He turned away before Diego could react, taking a pair of quick steps towards Marianna running to him, sweeping her up in his arms and swinging her around as she laughed – obviously a well-practiced maneuver. Diego smiled at the couple and retired to the cantina patio.

Later that evening, gathered in and around the patio, Sofia had a question. "Capitán? We are running low on oil for the lamps. Where can we get some?"

Felipe looked up at her blankly, blinked, came to a decision, and shrugged elaborately. "I don't know. Ask the Alcalde," he said in a completely ordinary voice, tipping his head towards Diego.

Who was not the only one to take exception. _"Alcalde?"_ several voices, including his, asked in astonishment.

Felipe gazed around with a guileless expression that fooled no one. "Yes. Alcalde." Looking straight at Diego, who was standing several feet away, he added, "I'm the military leader, you're the civilian leader. You're the best man for the job. Alcalde," he ended as if making a pronouncement.

Diego's jaw had dropped in disbelief. After a moment, he held up a hand to stop the verbal explosion going on around him, then crossed his arms over his chest. "Let me get this straight," he began, speaking deliberately. "After _all these years_ of fury and disgust – rightfully so, I might add – at the Empire and the crown for simply... _appointing_ whoever they like as alcalde, or governor-general, or whatever else, without _any_ consultation with or input from the people they were meant to govern... after all that, you're going to turn around and do the _exact same thing_ to your own people?"

He watched as Felipe dropped his head and swallowed hard, before nodding ruefully. He had to give it to the young man, Felipe knew when and how to back down, and did it gracefully.

"You're right," Felipe began. "I _am_ doing that." If Diego thought that might end it, however, he was quickly disabused of the notion. "We should have an election." Before Diego could react, Felipe stood up and looked around. "Is everyone here? Good. I hereby nominate Diego de la Vega as our alcalde. Anyone seconding?"

"Seconded," came immediately from a most unexpected (to Diego) source: Marianna, sitting beside Felipe. She was smiling slightly, and refusing to glance in his direction.

"Anyone else?" Felipe continued. "Anyone want to be considered for the job, or want to nominate someone? I'm completely serious, here. There are enough of us now, and our lives have gotten complicated enough, that we _need_ to have someone in charge, to make decisions, especially when I'm gone. And when I'm here, too – I don't want to confuse things by sometimes I'm in charge, sometimes someone else. And I'm a fighter, not an alcalde." He paused to let that sink in, before asking again. "Anybody?" Silence. Felipe looked at Sofia, the most forward – and therefore informal leader – of the women. "Sofia? You want it?"

Sofia looked astonished, but then a snort came from one of the fighters. "A woman as alcalde?" he scoffed. She raised her palm to gesture to him, her face sour, then shook her head wordlessly at Felipe.

"All right. Anyone else?" Still silence. He asked several others, including both Juanita and her husband, Paulo, but all refused. "Then nominations are closed. All in favor of Diego de la Vega for alcalde, raise your hand," Felipe pushed on, raising his own. So did nearly everyone else in the village – all but one, Diego himself. "Anyone opposed?" All arms went down. "Good! Congratulations, Señor Alcalde!" Felipe at last looked back at his brother with a disingenuous smile.

Diego had not looked around once the whole time, staring levelly at Felipe with growing outrage and what was very nearly disgust. Silence fell once more as the others took in his reaction. Finally, several long moments later, he slowly answered, making a solemn promise. "I... am going to dunk your head... in a horse trough. When you least expect it."

Felipe managed to keep his face serene. "Noted," he replied calmly.

A few more beats, and Diego turned to Sofia. "I don't know," he said simply, referring to the oil. "I'll get back to you."

"Thank you," she managed not to laugh, and sat down.

They began breaking up shortly after that, drifting off to their scattered homes in pairs and families. Diego rose from his seat and walked into the cantina building – he had taken over old Marquez's room (the original cantina owner who had died in the invasion) on the second floor at Felipe's suggestion.

"Diego?" came from behind him. It was Felipe.

Diego stopped, not quite coming to attention. "Si, Capitán?" His low, hard voice said he was still furious.

He heard Felipe draw a sharp breath and knew he'd understood. "Yes, I am the Capitán," came his harsh reply. "And I made a command decision. Is there a problem?"

"A _problem?_" Diego nearly shouted, whirling around to stare. "You didn't even ask if I wanted it! _Any_ of the others – Sofia! – "

Felipe cut him off sharply. "Didn't want it. I asked her this afternoon – and not for the first time. She refused, again. And you saw this evening. Some of the men aren't ready for a woman alcalde, and she isn't ready to fight for it. I hope some day she is," he added. "She'd be very good."

"So you just _saddle_ me with it, _without_ asking."

Felipe flared. "You could have refused – like she did. You still could. Tell me no. I won't take it tonight. I'll take it in the morning. Please _think_ about it overnight." Glancing away quickly, Felipe brought himself under control. "Diego," he began again, a little more conciliatory. "You're right. I'm sorry. I roped you into it, without any warning. But please consider," he added, holding up a hand. "It _needs_ doing, like I said out there. You're the right man for the job. And it's the right job for you." A pause. "Think about it." With that, he walked past Diego to the front door and started across to his house.

"I'm still going to dunk your head in a horse trough," Diego muttered under his breath a few seconds later. He knew he'd do it.

"If it makes you feel better!" Felipe's voice came floating back, from way too far away to have reasonably heard him. Diego glared at the empty doorway, shook his head, and trudged resentfully up the stairs to bed.


	34. Chapter 34

**THIRTY-FOUR**

Diego had ridden his chestnut, Rojo, out to the two nearby villages earlier to introduce himself and the idea of the smudge pots, and set them up when the respective alcaldes enthusiastically agreed. Now he did it again, going a bit further afield to learn more of the surrounding land, find the next villages, and introduce himself as the new alcalde of Valle Perdido. And to find some lamp oil, which he did quickly, bringing back a medium-sized barrel tied to Rojo's withers behind him, enough for a few weeks. The alcalde who had provided it had refused to even negotiate for payment.

Once back, he returned to his previous activities, "hiring" himself out to the various women to help in their fields and pastures each morning and getting to know them a bit better. One morning found him a few yards away from Sofia, wielding a hoe to cut down the weeds in a corn-and-bean patch while he idly considered this latest wild turn his life had taken. Suddenly he began laughing ruefully.

Glancing up, he of course caught Sofia's rather bewildered and slightly outraged look, and threw up a hand immediately. "I'm laughing at myself, I assure you."

"I could use a laugh," the redhead replied invitingly, bending over her own hoe again.

Diego weeded a few more feet down the row before he began. "My grandfather was Don Federico de la Vega," he said, the name rolling grandly off his tongue. "Our family, in centuries past, were advisers and ministers to the king in Madrid. We had houses and estates in Madrid, Salamanca, Sevilla. Don Federico's own father made a fortune in Bolivia before he got out – he couldn't stand the system of slavery there; he agreed with de las Casas." He could see that name meant nothing to Sofia, but it didn't matter. "So he went to California, becoming the first to hold a land grant from the crown in Los Angeles, and passed it to Don Federico. He and my father, Don Alejandro, built the pueblo from the ground up, urging more dons to come and take grants, bringing in many others to settle the pueblo, farm, open stores, the cantina. Sometimes they _literally_ built it, with their own hands. Father helped his friend Paulo Escalante build the cantina." _Victoria's father,_ he thought with a stab of pain, quickly stifled. "But they always remembered who they were, where they came from. The de la Vegas are caballeros, hidalgos, with connections to the crown. I was educated in Mexico City and the university at Salamanca, and then brought home to take my place." His voice trailed off in memory.

"I'm not seeing what's funny," Sofia commented after he was silent for a time.

Diego looked up, a wry smile stretching his lips. "I was wondering what my father and grandfather would think if they could see me now," he said, gesturing to his bare feet and straw hat.

Straightening up, Sofia looked him over, considering. "Wouldn't they prefer to see you with a hoe in your hands, than a gun?"

He slowly nodded. "I sincerely hope so, at any rate." He started to bend back over the hoe, but stopped as Sofia walked slowly over to him. Stopping in front of him, she silently looked up into his face, then reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes. Her own eyes gave him no doubt of her intentions.

He moved his head sideways away from her hand, then shook it. "I'm sorry, Señora." He raised his left hand to display the ring. "I'm married."

Sofia's brows raised skeptically as her hand dropped again to her side. "She is a _very_ long way away."

Diego smiled mistily, then shook his head again. "No, she's not. She's right here," he said softly, patting his chest over his heart. "I have become many things," he went on, "but an oath-breaker is not one of them. I can't... I _won't_... break my wedding vows."

"A man of principle is a rare thing these days," was her very slightly bitter reply. "She's a lucky woman."

"No. I'm a lucky man. She's worth it." As Sofia turned away, disappointed, he wanted to save her something. "Sofia, please. Don't misunderstand me. You'd be worth it, too. And I'm not going to claim I'm not tempted. I just can't..." Not quite knowing how he wanted to end that sentence, he just let it trail off.

She had looked back over her shoulder at him, eyes unreadable. After a beat, she nodded, then covered it by telling him he'd missed a weed, pointing back behind his feet. By the time he'd gotten it, she'd returned to her own row, and they continued in silence – but it was not uncomfortable.

* * *

So the summer went, the rhythms of each day blending into the changing requirements of the season, as the corn grew tall, and the crops with shorter growing cycles neared their first, mid-summer harvest. The guerrilleros stayed home for three weeks straight to help with that, and then plant the next round.

As they rode in that time, though, Diego could tell something was off. All the men were staying mounted, bunched up together behind Felipe. He did another quick head count and came up the same; nobody was missing. Then he finally noticed the men were hiding grins and even snickers behind their hands, watching the Capitán's back.

Felipe was staring around at the sky, as innocently as he could manage, looking all at once like the boy he had once been, sneaking a sweet from the kitchen. Marianna came slowly up to Diablo's side, giving her husband a growing suspicious side-eye; she'd seen the men's reactions, too. Finally, he had to look at her, trying not to laugh. Just as Diego noticed that Felipe was wearing his jacket even though the day was too warm, his brother looked down, opened the jacket up...

… and pulled out a black puppy, tongue lolling happily now he was out of that suffocating darkness.

Marianna lost it, as did nearly everyone else. She managed to clap her hands to her mouth to stopper her laughter, although it rolled out around her.

"Pleeeeease, canIhaveapuppy?" Felipe rattled out in a high, boyish voice, managing to get it out before his own laughter chased it. "Sanchez got one!" he added innocently, clearing his face by force. Indeed, another yipping came from further back in the line.

Marianna managed to stop her own giggles, and put her hands on her hips, trying for a severe tone. "Is it old enough to leave its mother?"

"Yes!" he instantly responded. "Three months old, fully weaned!"

She gave in, laughing, and reached up to take the puppy. Seeing it was male, she asked, "What is his name?" The puppy responded by enthusiastically licking her face.

"I haven't named him," Felipe said archly, swinging one leg over and dropping down off Diablo. "I thought we should name our son together." Snorting, he added quickly, "You might want to put him down; he probably has to pee."

Marianna did so with alacrity, and just in time; the puppy squatted right there, too young to lift his leg. The proud parents both laughed as he then trotted happily over to trade sniffs with Diablo, obviously already friends.

Felipe leaned over to kiss his wife. Then, "Oh, joy," Marianna suddenly announced ruefully. "Now I have two of you to house train." And she turned to head towards the cantina.

"Ay! I'm not _that_ bad!" he called after her, full of mock outrage. "I don't pee in the house. Any more," he aimed at her back, and she whirled around, jaw dropping, before joining the laughter once more.

After several days of consideration, the puppy was named Chico. As he was still so young, far too young to keep up on the trail, Felipe left him behind when he rode out again. Of course, that inevitably made Chico much more Marianna's dog than Felipe's, to which he shrugged. Diego rather suspected that had been his intention all along, a canine guardian for his wife when Chico grew up.

Some time after that, the valley peaceful again, the guerrilleros having ridden out again on patrol of the mountains, two of the women got into a squabble one afternoon in the patio over space on the table they were sharing. Sofia was spreading out too far, Mia claimed; she had no room for her own sewing. Diego, working nearby on his own project, could see she was indeed being crowded off, but Sofia charged back, saying she _needed_ all that room to lay out the leather she was trying to cut for shoes.

Diego was sitting to one side working on his own project, fixing some old farm implements left by the previous original inhabitants. He had lost his pique over time with Felipe and Jaime for how they had smoothed his way, as the valley's residents' resulting easy acceptance had helped regrow his own self-confidence. The only rock in his bed was his continued inability to contact Victoria – they had no access to the fledgling postal service, nor money with which to buy postage, nor was he certain any such letter would reach her past de Soto, whom he was most anxious to leave in the dark about his fate and current whereabouts. Now he opened his mouth to jump in and solve this little spat, but was cut off by Mia. "Doña Marianna, please!" Diego blinked.

There was no need for Marianna to ask for details; she had been there all along. All the tables were being used that afternoon for a multitude of tasks. "Both of you need more room than you have. Sara," she called. "You only need a tiny space. Could you change places with Mia, please?" There was plenty of open space between Sara and the other women at her table.

Sara nodded immediately, and the swap was made with no fuss. It was such a minor thing, but it stuck with Diego, until he figured out what was bothering him. The episode had told him something he'd never noticed before: it wasn't brash, outgoing Sofia who was actually in charge of the women, it was Marianna. Looking back over the preceding months, he remembered several other such incidents. The reserved young gentlewoman preferred not to put herself forward, letting natural leaders such as Sofia and Juanita do what they did best, but whenever she _did_ step in, to resolve a dispute or redirect activities, her word, Diego realized, was obeyed instantly, without question. He didn't know whether it was due to her position as the wife of the Capitán, respect for _Doña_ Marianna's background and rearing, or merely the fact that her solutions were invariably both sensitive and sensible – probably a combination of all three, he thought wryly. But once he realized it, things fell into place. It was the second thing that had greatly surprised him in the valley.

Marianna had performed another long, quiet miracle, as well, over the months since his arrival. It had begun so simply: she merely asked Diego questions during those long work afternoons, about any number of things: history, especially, but also politics, and philosophy, and literature – she was slowly working through _Don Quixote_, as promised. She wanted to understand how the world worked, and how they had gotten into the present situation there in New Spain. And in answering her questions, it opened up discussions among the women. He never felt like he was giving lectures at any time, but merely participating in conversations.

And not just the women. Felipe, too, had a habit of sparking long, deep discussions nearly every afternoon on the patio, simply by asking questions, and he always subtly tried to get everyone involved by asking their opinions. He didn't just pick on Diego, though – interested in things martial, Felipe would often get Costa, Jaime, or the two or three others who had been in uniform to describe battles or campaigns they had been involved in – especially any involving a much smaller force winning against a larger one. Diego found he was able to hold his own there, bringing up and describing historical wars and battles he had studied at university. Marianna or the other women would also often get Diego to reopen a discussion they had been having, and gradually, Diego realized the three of them were quietly involved in educating the entire community. They wanted _everyone_ to understand how the world worked, how they had gotten where they were, and why freedom of all kinds was so important. If ever he had been in danger of adopting the typical hidalgo attitude of supercilious contempt for "stupid peasants" – and he _had_ slipped that direction a few times in his callow youth – he was forever and completely disabused of it by those long afternoons, as each point was picked over and intelligently picked apart, by each adult there.


	35. Chapter 35

**THIRTY-FIVE**

The long summer at last was ending, the days shortening and cooling perceptibly. Diego found he was on pins and needles, waiting for the company to return so they could begin the final harvest of the year, hoping they'd time it right.

They did. Felipe and the guerrilleros rode in, dusty and tired, early one afternoon after a long three-week absence. Felipe greeted his wife as he always did, scratched the fast-growing Chico on the head, then turned to Diego with a grin. He pulled out a long slender tube wrapped in leather from under the saddlebag straps and waved it at his brother.

"Wait till you see what I've got!" he cried excitedly. "A gift, from General Guerrero!" A courier from the rebel general had found them a few days before and given it to him. Diego found out later that Felipe had also had a short, rather intense-looking conversation with the courier, apart from all the others, even Costa, but had kept his lips tightly shut on whatever had been discussed.

The gift turned out to be a large, well-filled-in map of Mexico, the name written in above the crossed-out New Spain at the top. Nearly five feet square, the heavy vellum map impressed even Diego, who – although familiar with maps – had never seen such a detailed one of his home country. He helped Felipe tack it to the outside wall of the cantina, under the patio's protective roof.

"Help me figure out where we are!" commanded the Capitán eagerly. Several men were from the area, and they called out and then helped find the nearest marked cities and towns, then Diego and Felipe triangulated the valley's location as best they could in the long, long sprawling collection of smaller mountain ranges known as the Sierra Madre Oriental. Felipe pulled a feather from his belt pouch, quickly sharpened the quill, and stuck it through the map at that point to mark it.

Then began a long afternoon pouring over the map. Felipe called everybody up at least once, to figure out where their homes were, and give them a quick course in map reading. They figured out distances, marveling at how many days travel it took to get to Mexico City, or down to Yucatan, or up to California in the far northwest corner, when it was only a few inches on paper. Even Jaime, already familiar with maps, came up and grinned, tracing the path of his long-ago campaign on the Yucatan Peninsula with a finger, pointing out camps and battle sites he had described before.

Then he straightened. "Diego," he said calmly, still smiling at the map. "Would you do me a huge favor? Some day, when you return to Los Angeles, would you kindly inform Don Alejandro that I do indeed know where the Yucatan Peninsula is?" Giving his old friend a bland smile and a quick nod, Jaime turned away to sit down, leaving Diego to puzzle it over – until Felipe cracked up, and reminded him of the time Father had made that very snarky remark behind then-Sergeant Mendoza's back. Nobody ever knew he had heard it.

Diego was growing more and more certain something else was going on, especially as he watched Felipe make sure everyone, man and woman, had taken their turn at the map, and not let them go until he was certain they understood the distances shown. He caught his brother's eyes at one point and raised his own brows, but Felipe just smiled mysteriously and turned away.

At last, everyone had come by for enlightenment. Felipe let the afternoon chatter run for a bit, as a light evening meal was shared and nibbled on, then he stood and rapped the table for attention.

"Mis amigos..." he grinned, "you are right, those of you who asked. There was more than just the map. The General also sent very valuable, very welcome information." He paused. Not a sound was heard. "The war, which has been raging up and down – and across – these mountains for the last three years... is moving off at last. The two main armies are chasing each other south and west, towards Mexico City, and the General believes strongly that next year's campaign will be focused in that area."

He paused again, to let that sink in. They all knew now what that meant: many weeks' ride by horseback away from their small, protected valley.

"He also believes – _very_ strongly – that next year's campaign will be _key._ The General is calling in all the allies and associated troops he has been in contact with over the last few years, gathering up a mighty force, in order to smash the Army of New Spain once and for all."

One could have heard a pin drop. At last, Costa stood and asked it. "Us, too?"

Felipe nodded. "Us too." But then he immediately held up a hand. "General Guerrero is not our commander. He is not issuing orders. It is a _request_ – however strong. It is up to us to decide whether to honor it or not." He paused again, looking around at everyone, before shaking his head. "I am not issuing orders, either. This is not for me to decide. It is for _all_ of us to decide – and only after we discuss it, at length, from all angles."

"Capitán, I don't understand. What are you talking about?" That was one of the women, wanting it spelled out plainly. Diego didn't blame her.

Felipe had been standing till that point; now he leaned his hips back against the half-wall behind him. Diego was reminded of him taking the same stance the evening after the retaking of the valley.

"From what I can see, we have three choices," he began laying them out. "One, we can stay here. Refuse the invitation. Continue to live here in our beautiful valley, farm the fields, protect ourselves and our neighbors in these mountains."

"From _what?_" growled Costa. Diego saw many heads turn as they realized what he meant: their long-time enemy had been the Army. Bandits and outlaws had long since left for easier lives elsewhere, far away from the armies and the partisans. Felipe didn't give voice to the answer, merely glancing at his lieutenant and moving on.

"Two, we can go and join the General, and do our part in the coming battles."

"In uniform? As his soldiers?" Someone asked, his distaste evident.

Felipe shook his head, though. "No. He wants us to be his scouts and skirmishers, mostly. Much as we have been doing here. Uniforms would work against that, especially scouting."

"But much more often, and much closer to the battles," another voice added; a former soldier with experience.

Diego was puzzled. He couldn't see a third option beside those two. But Felipe answered before he could ask.

"Those are the options the fighters have. But our families, our wives and children, also have the choice. Do they stay or go? If you stay here, Señoras, and work our farms, we would not be able to return until the fighting is over, or if there is a lull next winter. Or we could all pack up and move south to join the General's army."

"And do what?" Sofia rose. "Become camp followers?" Her scornful voice left no doubt her opinion of that option.

"Or find another village and settle into it," Felipe said, "although I cannot guarantee how often we would be able to join you there, either – or whether any such place might be found that could absorb our families and support them – and us. There are many unknowns."

"So the three choices," Sofia summed up, staring at the Capitán, "are all stay, all go, or split up."

He simply nodded.

A minute passed, while they absorbed the ideas. Then Diego rose, compelled. "Capitán, I would like to point out something. Costa was right. With the Army moving off, there's nothing to defend these mountains – and the people who live in them – from. There would be nothing for you fighters to do. And sooner or later, all the villages who have been supporting us in return for protection would start to question why. The support would dwindle off to nothing. And this valley is already producing all it can – but it's not enough to feed all of us together, nor can we produce many things – nor would we have any way to pay for those things that are given to us now. In short..." He wanted to stop, but was committed now. "... we _can't all_ stay here together."

Felipe nodded, thanking him. An angry murmur began to run through the patio, and Felipe threw up his hand. "Stop. This isn't an argument. He made a valid point – and that's exactly what we need right now. We need to hear, and discuss, and _think_ about, _all_ sides of _all_ options and ideas, so we can – hopefully – come to the best decision, together." He made a face then. "I would _like_ for us to all make the same decision. At least, I hope we can. Although that might not be possible, I know. But let's all stay calm, please, and give it a shot."

They continued in fits and starts over the next hour or two, Diego ruefully aware again of how skillfully his little brother was leading them through the morass. Nor was he ever prouder of the people he had come to love than over that evening, as they discussed the move from all angles.

Several women and men wanted to know more about life as a camp follower. Sofia, the only woman who had done so in the past, was scornful and negative, but Jaime and Costa teamed up to paint a slightly better picture – albeit from a soldier's perspective. Diego wasn't certain they were able to change anyone's mind. When Sofia tried to enlist Marianna's aid, however, she ran into a brick wall.

"I was kept isolated, and allowed to do _nothing_," Marianna said flatly after a long silence, obviously deciding what to say. "My experience was _completely_ different. Do not judge by it." Turning her head then, she stared to the side, closing the subject.

"There is something else I need to point out," Felipe said then, changing the subject. "If we go and join the fighting..." He paused. "It will be _much_ more intense. _Much_ more frequent. And frankly... _much_ more dangerous. We have been lucky, especially this summer. As the armies have moved off, we haven't had _any_ fights in the last few months. That will change, completely. And with that... our casualties will rise. We will lose some of us. Of course, I will always do the best I can to prevent it, but I may not be able to. I trust and count on each of you, but _you_ may not be able to prevent it. If we do this... some of us, perhaps _many_ of us, sitting here today, will not be here a year from now. Look around. It might be your partner. It might be you. It might be me. But our numbers will almost inevitably go down."

A long silence fell on the group, as they all absorbed this. Then, a new voice. "Capitán?" said Jaime, standing. He looked around at everyone after getting the nod. "This valley has become my home," he began, smiling slightly. "You all have become my family. I have been happier here these last few months, than I can ever remember. But..." Pausing, he took a deep breath, then spoke directly to Felipe. "When I joined you last spring, it was because you promised me a chance to fight. For Mexico. For men like my father. And I have been proud to ride with you. But the war is still there. Now down south, away from here." Another deep breath, then he said it. "No matter what the rest of you decide, I will go join the General. Even if I am the only one. I will continue to fight, for Mexico." And with that, he sat down again.

With that reminder of what they had all been fighting for, since way back when Oso had led the group, a new conversation began. Felipe let it run a few minutes, then suddenly rapped the table again.

"Stop. I am stopping this discussion, right now, just for tonight. It seems everyone is edging towards a decision, but I do not want it made tonight, not after only an hour of talk. This is something we all need to think about, for at least a day, and consider from all angles. I am not telling any of you," he added as he waved his hands, "not to talk to each other. Of course, families will talk, partners will talk. And I am not saying not to make up your minds. You can't help that. But please, continue talking and thinking about it, making sure you have considered everything. We'll reopen this tomorrow at dinner. Does anyone else have any other facts they want us to consider?"

Juanita brought up that the harvest was ready, after all. He wasn't talking about leaving the crops in the field and riding south immediately, was he?

"Of course not. It's not that urgent. If we go, we will still harvest everything, and prepare as much as we can in the same way we do, so that we can take as much food and supplies as possible with us." And with that, the Capitán held up his hands again and ordered everyone to go home, and the patio slowly cleared.


	36. Chapter 36

**THIRTY-SIX**

Diego had been sitting several tables away from Felipe. Now, as everyone else slowly filed out of the patio, their heads filled with the decision before them, he gathered Jaime with a glance and went against the tide to sit at Felipe's and Marianna's table.

"You say families can talk," he said at Felipe's curious glance. "We're family. Even him," he added, tipping his head at Jaime.

"May I join you?" came Costa's voice from the side.

"Of course," Felipe said before anyone else, but they all nodded. He was family, too.

"You were very careful, Felipe," Diego began, "not to voice your opinions, so as not to unduly influence others. Rightfully so. But now it's just us. And I want to know what you're thinking."

Felipe's eyebrows had shot up. But he said nothing, turning to Marianna beside him instead with the question on his face. She shook her head at him. "It's your decision," she said simply. "Whatever it is, I will be beside you."

He shook _his_ head back, not accepting it so easily. "You said this valley was the only home you'd ever known."

"I said it was the _first_," she corrected. "That doesn't mean I cannot ever leave it, or will not. You've been saying for _months_, since he arrived," she gestured towards Diego, "that when the war is over, you want to go home, back to Los Angeles. So?" She shrugged eloquently, as if they were discussing a picnic. "We will go somewhere else, first, and then home."

He sighed heavily. Then, "I don't want you to be a _camp follower!_ I don't want you going back to that!"

Now _her_ brows raised. "Are you going to get a veil, and force me into it? Or make me stay hidden in a carriage or a tent at all times?"

"No!" was his outraged reply.

"Then it will not be the same. And whatever I must do, I will do, until we can go home. As I have always done. If that means riding with you with a rifle, so be it. If it means joining the camp that follows the army, and waiting for you, I will do that, too, and make the best of it that I can. Or making a new home in an abandoned farm, and waiting for you there." Her mouth quirked. "Now stop your fussing, and admit what we all know you are thinking."

Felipe snorted, giving her an amused, resigned half-smile. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek, which she obligingly turned up. Then he faced the table again, staring at his open hands for a long moment.

"When I first joined Oso's partisans, years ago," he finally began, referring to the man who had led the group until he died, "I took on two goals. Two missions," he amended. "First, I wanted to learn how to protect myself, so _no one_ would _ever_ be able to beat me up, or lash me, or take what was mine, _ever_ again." He was talking now to Diego, who nodded understanding. "When I had learned enough to do that, I had been accepted into the group, and it became... protecting my friends, too. Fighting beside them. And then when you made me Capitán," this towards Costa, "it became protecting the _whole_ group, and doing the best I could as Capitán. And then their families. And finally, everyone in these mountains – and the mountains themselves, too." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "The second mission, of course, was the same one since I was seven years old, but it..."

He struggled for a second, then Marianna suggested, "Crystallized?"

"Yes, thank you. It crystallized, from everything that had happened. Fighting the Empire. Fighting its army, until they go away, and leave us alone. Leave _Mexico_ alone." Felipe paused again, looking around and licking his lips as he thought. "As you said, it looks like the first one is winding down, whether I want it to or not. The Army is gone, the people don't need our protection any more, and this valley won't support all of us." He shrugged that one away. "But the second one... that is still there, clear and bright." He'd been speaking again to Diego, but now he shifted his gaze straight across the table to Jaime, and nodded. "You won't be the only one to go to the General. I will be going with you."

"_We_ will be," Marianna corrected.

Felipe shrugged. "Even if it's just the three of us, we will join, and do our part. Who knows, maybe Guerrero will put me in command of a cavalry unit."

"That's a given," Costa put in, hard. "With your background? I'll give Guerrero this – he knows men, knows how to use them. If you don't come with a company, he'll give you one." It was Costa's turn to pause, then he plunged in. "But you won't be going alone. I'm going, too." Catching Jaime's and Diego's questioning looks, he shrugged defensively. "That's what I do. I fight the Empire – and there's still fight left in this old dog – and I follow El Halcón."

Felipe snorted, very softly. "Glad to have you, old man," he said, ignoring the complement. He turned to his brother. "Well, Diego?"

It was Diego's turn to look around. He started on a tangent, like Felipe had. "I love this valley. I love the life we have here. I love the people." Then he turned to Marianna. "But unlike you, Doña Marianna, this is not my home. My home is thousand miles northwest, where she waits. – Please, God, let her still be waiting," he added, a prayer under his breath. He looked back at Felipe. "I don't agree completely with your assessment of the Empire. I can't get there. But I do understand why you hold it. And I have come to understand... that they will never let me live in peace. As long as the Empire is in charge – and especially, as long as de Soto is in charge in Los Angeles..." He shook his head. "He will never let me live in peace. I declared myself their enemy when I put on the mask the first time – and it's well known now, that it was me." He shook his head. "Even if I had served out my entire sentence, and gone home with that official discharge, still... He would never let me be." He stopped, still wishing he didn't have to say it. But... "I know, too, that the only way I can ever go home and live in peace, is if Mexico wins, and becomes independent. If de Soto and the Empire are kicked out. So..." Taking a deep breath, he took the plunge he'd never wanted to take. "I'll be going with you, too. And I'll do whatever I can, to help the cause." He threw up a hand. "I won't take up arms again; I can't do that. But whatever else..." He shrugged, snorting. "I'm sure the General could use another surgeon."

Jaime stared. "You'd join the butchers?"

"No, I won't become a butcher," Diego corrected. "If I work on a man, it will still be to save his life – and hopefully all his limbs. But if that's what is needed, until we win, and can all go home..." A sour smile twisted his lips. "I may not be as enthusiastic as the rest of you, but I'm in. And I won't turn back."

They sat, looking around at each other, a bit stunned at how casually such a momentous decision had been made for each of them. Then Jaime sat up straight in between Diego and Costa, took a deep, proud breath, and stuck his right hand out, palm down, above the table. Felipe immediately covered it with his own, and the other three followed suit, Marianna last of all.

"Viva Mexico!" she whispered, low and intense, as if to say it louder would shatter something.

"Viva Mexico!" the others echoed, one by one, soft and fierce and proud and free.


	37. Chapter 37 - Part Five

**PART FIVE – MEXICAN AFTERNOON**

**THIRTY-SEVEN**

Six weeks later found Diego riding Rojo at the head of a short, four-wagon caravan piled with women, children, belongings, and as much food as they could cram in.

The decisions made the day after their personal declarations went much the way Diego had suspected they would. Paulo and Juanita, older than the rest and long past fighting, elected to remain in Valle Perdido as permanent residents; and they were joined by three other families, all with several children. The knowledge that their beloved hidden valley would continue to house some of them in an established pueblo went far to ease the discomfort of many of the rest, including Marianna, even if the parting was painful.

The women had decided together that they would at least try life in the camp that had sprung up to follow the main army of General Guerrero. At least that way, Felipe and the other partisans would know where to find them when they got a break from the fighting, although no one knew how often that might be.

Just as the Capitán had promised, they all remained in the valley for several weeks, bringing in the harvest and drying it as best they could, before dividing it up between the two groups. Each individual likewise had many difficult decisions to make on exactly what to bring and what to leave behind. It was wrenching to all, but in the end, the vast majority of farming and food preparation equipment was left – although some did make the cut, just in case, including most of the tools and huge pots the women used in preparing the mass daily meals.

The Capitán had taken three unmarried fighters, including young Javier, around to all the nearby towns to explain the situation, letting the people in the mountains know that the armies were gone, and so were the partisans. They also came back with two more large farm wagons and teams to pull them – farewell gifts from two of the towns – increasing their vehicles to four, and a final contribution of bags of ground corn and wheat.

At last the day had arrived, and Diego and Felipe, as civilian and military heads, together led the caravan of wagons and horses out of Valle Perdido for the last time. Not a few tears were shed at last glimpses of their beloved temporary home.

One evening a week or two out, as the evening camp was being set up, Felipe asked Diego to walk out with him. The Capitán was visibly agitated, not even grinning as usual at Chico gamboling and tripping around his feet, and finally Diego simply asked him what was up.

"I have something I need to ask of you," Felipe admitted, "but I'm not at all sure how you're going to react."

Diego stopped walking at that, and turned to face the younger man. "Well, why don't you spit it out, and let's see?" he asked, trying not to be patronizing.

It still took a few more seconds for Felipe to gather the words to start. "I know that you had decided to join the General's staff – perhaps as a surgeon – and do what you could to contribute to the cause. I appreciate that. But I need to ask you, now... for something else instead."

"And what is that?" Diego prompted after a moment.

"I need to ask you... to stay with our families. To continue being our alcalde. To protect them, and look after them." That was still not plain enough for Felipe, and finally he came to the real point. "I am asking you to stay and protect Marianna – to take care of her. I can't be there, but she needs someone. I know it's not much for the cause, for Mexico... but it would mean the world to me. Please." The look of anguished need on his face brought a smile to Diego's, reminding him of so many times when Felipe was a boy...

He held up a hand. "Of course I will. Felipe..." He shook his head. "I've seen you fight. And lead these men. You are much better than I ever was. And your... contribution to the cause, if that's how you want to phrase it, is so much more than I could do, by any method. And frankly, if by doing this, I can ease – not just your mind, but all your men, too – and let you all concentrate on what you're supposed to be doing... That would doubtless increase your chances of survival and victory both, and would be worth _much_ more than _anything_ I could do on my own – even as a surgeon."

"I don't agree with that – I'm sure you would be a great help to the General – but I'm not going to turn around and try argue you out of it." Felipe grinned slyly. He held out his hand, adding, "_Thank_ you" from his heart. Diego grasped his forearm and they shook with a smile.

As Felipe started to turn back to the camp, however, Diego stopped him. "Wait a minute. There's something else I need to say to you. I'm sure you realize it, but it needs to be said." Felipe swung back, puzzled, and Diego smiled a little ruefully. "There's nothing more I can teach you about the sword. You're no longer my student. In fact – well, I don't know what other masters would say, but as far as I'm concerned, you _are_ now a master swordsman. Better than I am – especially when you combine it with all those other tricks and styles."

It was true that recently, the only times Diego had "won" their sparring – or even brought it to a draw – was when he insisted Felipe stick just to the sword. If his brother pulled out his dagger, as he was apt to do without even thinking about it, or used his feet or any other weapon, Diego would lose in minutes.

Felipe had involuntarily taken half a step back (a habit of his when surprised, Diego realized) and stared at him a minute, head tipped to one side, absorbing that pronouncement. "Really?" When Diego assured him, he thought a moment longer, then replied slowly, "Thank you. For _everything_ you have taught me." He didn't just mean the sword, or recently. "I wouldn't be what I am... If you hadn't found me and taken me in." He snorted softly. "Hell, I probably wouldn't even be alive."

Grimacing, Diego glanced down at the back of his right hand, where the old C brand – for Convict – was still clearly visible. He brought it up to show Felipe. "I think we're even," was all he said.

* * *

_It was a good thing we settled that when we did,_ Diego mused now, because not three days ago the company had split in two; the guerrilleros under their Capitán riding hard to join General Guerrero in response to another courier he had rushed north to find them. Apparently the Army of New Spain was not content to go into winter quarters as they had before, but were continuing to take the fight to the amassing rebel army, hoping to break them apart before they could completely coalesce, and Guerrero needed the partisans' help _now._

So the men had said their goodbyes suddenly, in the middle of a glorious winter afternoon, snappy and cool. Diego happened to be standing near Felipe and Marianna after he had traded a "company" handshake with Jaime before the other mounted up. Tamping down hard on the inevitable stab of heartache and jealousy, he watched the couple out of the corner of his eye as they wrapped their arms around each other and stood gazing. "Come back to me," he heard Marianna whisper. He knew it was what she always said.

"Of course I will," Felipe replied as usual. Then, "You are my heart and my soul, beloved. I will _always_ return to you – if I have to crawl the length of Mexico."

Marianna smiled through her tears. "Ride that devil horse instead. It will be faster."

He snorted softly. "Si, Señora." A final, longing kiss – quick now, as time was done – and he dropped his arms and turned to mount the devil horse in question.

His wife stepped over to Diablo's head, pulling it down by the bridle to look directly into the horse's eye. "Take care of him for me. Bring him safely back."

Diablo apparently agreed, because he lipped her face, as she scrunched up her eyes and turned her lips inward, biting them. Then she turned to look over her shoulder at Diego. "I've been kissed by a horse." With both brothers chuckling, she turned back and solemnly thanked Diablo, before stepping away, wiping her face with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket.

The Capitán now looked back down the road, seeing all of his men mounted and ready. But instead of raising his fist in the ready signal as usual, he did something different. He rode slowly down one side of the double column and back up the other, inspecting not the weapons or horses, but the men themselves, looking each in the eyes. Each one silently nodded, even young Javier. They were ready to face whatever was to come.

Back in front again, Felipe traded a nod with Diego, a long, smoldering last look with Marianna, glanced back to his men once more, then silently swung his fist around over his head to go. And the company of guerrilleros rode south.

Diego was now the sole man accompanying the women and children to where they hoped they would find the camp of those following the rebels, determined after a quick conference once again to give that a try. He had insisted that the women each keep their assigned rifles loaded and with them at all times, tucking them into gaps in the wagon contents or by their feet as they rode, in case of trouble.

Reflecting on his current circumstances, Diego smiled softly. The long summer with its rhythms of hard work, engaging conversations, and long hours to relax and think had worked a miracle, bringing him back to himself. He even had a set of new clothes. They had ridden through a large town on its market day a few days after leaving the valley, and had spent several happy hours trading a bit of their food stores for things they needed. Diego had found a grey suit and white shirt that very nearly fit – and Ava and Maria, both expert seamstresses, had witched them into perfection in a couple of days. He had even found a broad-brimmed hat he liked – not too fancy, not too shabby – although his head would be a few more weeks in training it. And as they left the town, Marianna had shyly given him a gift – she and Felipe had found two pairs of thin, supple, leather gloves, one without fingers, that fit him perfectly – and covered the brand on the back of his right hand. Their thoughtfulness brought tears to his eyes.

All in all, he thought, life at this moment was pretty good. He felt like himself again in his new clothes, riding a decent horse – Rojo was much smoother and smarter than he had looked, at first – in command of a caravan of people who had, over the previous months, come to trust in him. Except for the constant, agonizing ache that was Victoria's absence, he would have said he was happy – or at least, content.

He flinched hard, involuntarily scrunching up his face momentarily, as the heartache stabbed through him again. He missed Victoria like sin – and it had gotten no better over the preceding three-plus years. He had lived through that same pain before, loving her silently and from a distance, for five long years while he had played at being Zorro. Then came those two and a half years of heaven, as they shared their thoughts, dreams, and lives with each other – first secretly, then openly, before he was once more wrenched away and into this personal hell. Was that all the time they would ever have together? Was she still waiting in Los Angeles? Or had she moved on, forgotten him? Had she even survived? Had the child? As always, he squashed that last question, not able to face it for even a second. He just couldn't.

And now he was trapped here. But was he, really? Or was he truly being the coward he had formerly let everyone believe Diego de la Vega to be, hiding here in the south instead of returning home where he so longed to run? He thought again of Ignacio de Soto, and his unreasoning hatred of Zorro, trying to work out the possibilities. But every time, he came up with the same answer. Just as he had told the others that night in the cantina, de Soto would never let him live in peace. He would hound him mercilessly, constantly, until he broke him again, and Diego would have to live in constant fear of being framed, trapped – or physically attacked outright. Remembering the increasingly wild look in the Alcalde's eyes, Diego firmly believed the man was slowly becoming unhinged.

No, he had been right. Until the situation changed, Father and Victoria would have a much better chance of de Soto leaving them alone to have a normal life if he remained away. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make. If only he could be certain, could get some word of the situation there in Los Angeles. But they had never contrived a way to safely find out. Besides, he had new responsibilities now. He had made promises, to look after his brother's reserved, gentle wife – who he had come to love and respect as a younger sister these past few months – and the rest of their little community; to lead and guide them, and protect them from trouble.

And here came trouble now, he realized the instant the three horsemen topped the rise in front of the caravan, cantering easily along the road towards them. He knew it even before he recognized their uniforms – a sergeant, a lieutenant, and a major, all with the Army of New Spain. A murmur from behind told him the women had also seen the trio – and he heard Marianna (on the seat of the first wagon) hiss sharply for no one to say a word, and to pass that back. _Bless her,_ he thought, then bent his mind towards the front again, even as he surreptitiously loosened his sword and rifle in their respective sheaths.

The trio had stopped abreast in the road, blocking it. Diego was tempted to ride straight through, but knew that would only cause trouble without solving anything, so he raised his hand to stop the wagons, too, and greeted the men pleasantly. "Good after – "

The major cut him off peremptorily. "What is this? Who are you, and where are you going?"

Diego kept a determinedly pleasant smile on his face, even as he skipped his name, giving the major their agreed cover story. "Our village was burned out in the war, and most of our men were killed. We are moving to Mexico City to start new lives there."

"They fought in the war? Why aren't you in uniform?" The major asked sharply, looking Diego over head to toe, his meaning plain.

Diego waited a beat. "I did my duty." The brand suddenly itched under the glove, but he tamped it down hard and didn't twitch. He wasn't certain what he'd do if the major asked to see his discharge papers.

The other two sat their horses silently on either side of the major, obviously used to him being in command of every little detail. The major stared at Diego a moment longer, then snorted disdainfully. "I'm sure." His gazed then went past Diego to the wagons. "We are gathering supplies for the Army of New Spain. Let's see what you can contribute."

_So this is to be a shakedown,_ Diego thought warily as the major spurred suddenly past him on the verge, the other two trailing behind. As he turned Rojo to follow, Diego glanced at the women in the lead wagon, seeing both Marianna and Sofia beside her staring stonily straight ahead, even as Marianna held a growling, half-grown Chico firmly by her feet. The major gave Marianna (closest to him) the same appraising look he had just swept over the horses, dismissed the dog with a glance, then rode a step further and reached a hand to wrench back the corner of the blanket covering the wagon's contents.

"Lay one finger on any human, animal, or item in any of these wagons, Major Cortina, and your career will be over." Diego wasn't the only one to stop and stare. That pronouncement had come from Marianna, still gazing frostily ahead. Diego blinked. Not only had she said it with the most arrogant, disdainful note he'd ever heard, but she had resurrected her former old-country patrician accent, which she had been at pains to lose these past months.

The major had blinked, too, at the odd threat. "My _career?" _Then, as the other thought hit, "How do you know my name?" he demanded.

"My Uncle Rodrigo told me of you," she replied indifferently. She waited a beat, but then went on before he could ask, "He is the Marquis de Santander, but you know him as General de Santiago y Velasquez. I am Doña Paciencia de Santiago, wife of Don Juan Carlos Castillo y Marataya, Governor of Tejas." The names had rolled grandly and smoothly off her tongue, more swiftly than Diego could have said his own lineage. "We are moving to Mexico City, as he is next in line to become Governor-General of Mexico, should the current incumbent be recalled, as is expected. My uncle suggested we use this method to move myself and some of our household there incognito, so as to attract less attention in this... unfriendly country – an endeavor in which _you_ are not _helping_, Major." Her voice could have frozen Lake Texcoco. She still had not glanced at him.

Major Cortina swallowed hard. He had definitely recognized those names, especially her "uncle", judging by how he had blanched. "You should have guards, Señora," he protested, puzzled at the lack.

"I am quite well protected, Major. Simply because you did not see them does not mean they do not exist." A beat, then she exhaled sharply, haughtily exasperated. "Must I have my mayordomo call in the outriders to prove their existence to you? Or will you let us pass without further delay?"

"Your outriders let _me_ pass," he commented, trying to prove their lack of attention, at least.

Marianna jerked her head around at last to stare at the Major, eyebrows raised. "Are you a threat to me?" she demanded, radiating disbelief at the idea. "Have you changed loyalties?"

"Of course not!" he began, but she cut him off, turning back to stare over her horse's ears once more.

"Then go about your business, Major, and forget us. So that I can forget to mention you to my husband and my uncle, or how you detained us."

"Of course, Doña Paciencia." He hesitated, but then had to say one more thing. "If I may be so bold, however, if you are heading towards Mexico City, may I strongly suggest you angle further to the west. This road will lead you straight into the path of the rebel army – although they will likely be smashed by now, there will still be dregs and rabble that would threaten your safety. But if you take the road west from the next village for fifty miles, then turn south again, you will safely avoid them."

Marianna disdainfully kept her silence, but Diego broke in, "Thank you for your advice, Major. Señora?" he saluted Marianna, receiving a small, frosty nod in reply. He heard her very softly tell Sofia (holding the reins), "Go," as he reined Rojo around and sent him down the road, hearing the wagons start rattling behind them. Not willing to keep his back to the Spanish officers, he hitched around in his saddle and watched as they stood their horses beside the road, letting the four wagons pass, then – after what looked like an argument from the other two, cut short abruptly by the Major's chopping hand – wheeled around and continued on the road in the other direction.

Over the next hill, he finally reined around in a circle and came up beside Marianna's wagon again. Sofia and the other women were laughing by then, passing what had happened back to the next wagon, while Marianna fanned her red face to cool it in relief.

"That was magnificent!" he said appreciatively.

"How did you come up with those names so quickly?" Sofia wanted to know.

"Oh, they're quite real people," Marianna replied off-hand, "all three of them. And she's even about my age, and from the old country. I have no idea of her husband's prospects, but... it seemed logical."

"How did you know the Major_?_" Diego put in. "Or that your ruse would work on him?"

"Oh, _him,_" she let her disgust show now. "I once witnessed him toady up to my... to the colonel for an entire evening," she replied, referring to her former husband. "I know _exactly_ what kind of man he is. No," she hastened to reassure them, "I was in a heavy veil, and not allowed to say single a word. He would never have recognized me. But since he never even glanced my way, I was certain that if he had ever been introduced to the de Castillos, he would not have looked closely enough at _her_ either, to know me as an imposter."

"And who is the uncle?" Sofia asked. "Someone important?" Only the grandee general in charge of procurement for the entire Army of New Spain was the answer.

"Brilliant!" Diego commented.

"Are you certain they are not following us?" Marianna queried, worried and intense.

"I watched them all the way over the far hill."

"Then can we go now?" with a touch of the aristocratic exasperation.

"West, Señora?" he asked cheekily.

"South, Señor," was her unamused, arched-eyebrowed reply.


	38. Chapter 38

**THIRTY-EIGHT**

Two days later, they arrived at the rebel camp – or what _had_ been a camp. It was now a semi-permanent tent city sprawled across several low hills, as the families, followers, and all the various suppliers of the assorted regular and irregular units General Guerrero had called in swelled it to bursting. There was now no way it could follow the army but at a distance – and likely wouldn't move at all until and unless the battles shifted a hundred miles or more and continued.

"This is not what I had envisioned," Marianna murmured uncomfortably.

"Me, neither," Diego commented softly. He was sitting Rojo beside her wagon, as they stopped to get their bearings – staring a bit in consternation. There were hundreds of tents, thousands of people, and the noise – and the stench – was incredible.

"Well... find us a place," she sighed in resignation.

"Not in the middle, please," Sofia put in to general agreement.

"No," Diego agreed. "Definitely on the outskirts. That way," he pointed to the right, where the population seemed thinner. Clicking at Rojo, he led their small wagon train over the rough ground around the edge of the camp, until at last they came to an unclaimed grove crowning a hill. The lack of any springs for water, and the distance from the camp's center, explained its empty state – although their neighbors were not all _that_ far away, and showing obvious interest in the newcomers.

"Getting water will be a chore," commented Sofia sourly.

"We have water barrels. We'll do it as a group, once a day. I like the separation – it will give us a bit of privacy," Marianna countered. "This will do. Diego," she called him over to give him her approval, then, "I have a mission for you."

"Oh?"

"I am _not_ sleeping out in the open here," she said determinedly, "especially not in front of everyone. I'll never catch a single wink."

"Neither will I," he agreed. Only utter exhaustion had let him drift off during his long months in the open with the army.

"So... see if you can find us one of those big pavilions," she said slyly, pointing down to the many tents – some of them humongous – dotting the valley.

"Hmmmm." His spreading grin showed his approval of the idea. "I need to find Major Cristos, anyway, and check in." That was the name Felipe had given him, of the man Guerrero had appointed as his chief procurement officer, who would likely be in charge of the camp. He looked back at the women, concerned. "You'll be all right here till I get back?"

"Of course," was the reply, as she waved him off. "Go on. We'll set things up."

Major Cristos was nowhere to be found in the camp – he was, after all, the procurement officer for the _army_, not the followers. There was, however, something of a central distribution point disguised as an informal market which had sprung up in roughly the center of the burgeoning town. With no one in charge in any way, it was a wild and woolly free-for-all which left a bad taste in peace-loving Diego's mouth, even if he _was_ able to trade the bag of dried beans he'd taken from a wagon for the purpose for a good, well-built pavilion. He was astonished at the price, but apparently food was going for a higher premium than housing at the moment. He made a mental note to tell the women to keep a careful guard over their stores.

The pavilion was huge, nearly thirty feet on a side, with canvas roof and sides, and came with a few poles, all the needed ropes and stakes, and even its own little two-wheeled cart for hauling it around. And it had never been used – someone had bought several of them on spec to resell at the camp; this was the last one and had been sitting, forlorn and forgotten, in a massive pile of unsold junk. Diego hitched the patient Rojo up to the cart and gleefully hauled it back to their new digs, dragging the poles along behind.

"_And_ a cart?" Sofia demanded, arms folded across her chest.

"Perfect. We can use the cart to haul water in the barrels up the hill every day, using one of the draft horses," Marianna put in calmly, and that settled that. She went on, telling Diego, "we have already decided: no one is to leave our camp for any reason with less than two others, for safety, and we will always carry our guns." She was still visibly unsettled at the surroundings, but Diego agreed with the precautions wholeheartedly.

They took the remainder of the day to set up the tent in a level, grassy clearing with the door facing east towards the main camp – cutting down and trimming a few saplings in the grove to augment the poles that came with it – and arranging their new home. They parked the four wagons in two lines straight out from the front of the pavilion, making a courtyard the same size as the tent, then used ropes run between the wagons on one side and the trees beyond to erect a makeshift corral for their draft horses.

The poles weren't quite tall enough to pull the tent walls to full height, leaving a foot of canvas on the ground – to which Marianna came up with a brilliant solution. They folded the excess to the inside, then brought in all the barrels and bags of food and laid them atop the canvas, securing the sides against someone trying to sneak in and also guarding – and hiding – their valuable stores. The women and children could all sleep side-by-side on the ground inside the tent if they wished; they would lack privacy from each other, but gain it from the outside world. It would suffice, at least for a while. A blanket hung across one corner made a privy, while Diego dug a trench beyond the horses to receive the chamber pot contents and erected a lean-to over it for additional use. A few women wanted to hang more blankets, but after trying a few it was realized that would chop up the tent into unusability. One large room would have to do. Marianna then had some of the stored items shifted in front of their neighbors along the two sides, making tiny little bays against the tent sides – not enough for true individual privacy, but at least the semblance of it, if one slept with their head against the tent wall.

A firepit was dug in the center of the courtyard, lined with stones from the hill, and the iron tripod from the cantina erected over it; the back ends of the two wagons opposite the corral were used for a standing kitchen. Several spots – wagons and empty barrels – were designated as weapons caches, so they no longer had to keep their guns literally on their backs at all times unless walking out (always in a group).

As she helped lift their very large (almost empty) water barrel off one of the wagons and set it on the ground, Marianna paused and looked into it, sighing. When Sofia, on the other side, looked at her questioningly, she grimaced. "I bet I could sit in this barrel."

"Why would you?" Sofia was genuinely puzzled.

"To take a real bath – water up to my neck!" Marianna sighed again. "I haven't had one of those since I was fifteen."

Sofia shook her head. "I've _never_ had a bath like that."

Diego had been walking back and forth behind them, carrying packages to the door of the tent. As he passed, he paused and leaned towards Marianna. "In our hacienda in Los Angeles," he said in a low, seductive voice, "we have a bathtub large enough for _me_ to bathe like that."

Marianna's jaw dropped, and she grunted theatrically with jealousy. Sofia, though, looked askance at the man. "That must take a _lot_ of water, then."

"It does," he admitted, then added, "I don't take one very often."

Sofia laughed. "You'd better be careful, little one," she said to Marianna. "You'd slip and drown in a tub that big."

Marianna shrugged, grinning impishly. "Felipe would save me." She leaned over the barrel to whisper conspiratorially, "In fact, if it's _that_ big, I bet we could _both_ fit inside."

Now Sofia's jaw dropped, goggling at her usually prim companion. Then Diego capped it off by walking past again, leaning over, and whispering, "It is." Marianna lost it, covering her giggles with her hand, her face beet red. She didn't look at Diego for hours.

By evening, they had done the best they could, and had as comfortable and subtly fortified a temporary group home as possible. Things to sit on were at a premium, but chairs and stools would be contrived over the next few days – until then, some of the boxes and barrels would suffice. Weary but satisfied with their accomplishments, they celebrated with a hot meal of beans and vegetables and fresh tortillas, and broke open one of the few precious barrels of Paulo's beer.

Over the next few days, they all worked hard, determinedly cheerful and accommodating, to settle in and make the best of their circumstances. Three or four mornings later, the women set up two water barrels in the front corner of the courtyard and ran ropes across it for drying, and commenced to washing everything that could be washed – their clothes, especially, needed attention. Diego sat himself in another corner, fashioning three-legged stools for sitting on from a collection of wrist-thick sticks, twine, and thick rounds of rawhide he'd found in the market.

"Oh, my! What is _this?_" suddenly came from outside their courtyard. Diego looked up, then swiftly rose, dropping the stool he was working on, and strode quickly forward to intercept the young, dandyish officer – at least, he had lieutenant's insignia pinned on his shoulders – dismounting from his high-strung horse. His two companions, also lieutenants, were likewise swinging down a few steps beyond. "Ladies, I am very glad to see you!" the first man went on with a broad grin as he tossed his reins to a companion and moved between the wagons, ignoring Diego. "Which one of you would like some company today?" His eyes had fallen on Marianna, parading over her form, as she stood stiffly over one barrel, looking stonily away. All work had ceased in the moment; many staring at the intruder with unfriendly eyes. He didn't take the hint. "What are you doing, Señora? Washing? I could help you with that. I could help you with _many_ things," he continued insinuatingly, ignoring Chico, who was growling softly at the intruder from underneath one of the wagons.

"I think you have the wrong idea, Señor," Diego said smoothly, intercepting the lieutenant before he got too far in. He decided to be blunt. "This isn't a brothel."

The lieutenant gave him a sickly smile. "Of course not, sir. This is, what, a dance troupe?" His expression gave no doubt to his meaning as he named a convenient common cover for ladies of the evening.

Diego could match him in the sickly smile department. "No, Señor. We're not here to entertain anyone. These are the families of a company of fighters who have joined the General, nothing more." If the man couldn't see the children sprinkled around, he was being deliberately blind.

He felt more than saw some of the women moving behind him, and realized they were positioning themselves near the weapons caches. _Who had given the signal?_ he wondered briefly. _Probably Marianna._

The lieutenant had dropped the mock-friendly smile and fallen into a sneer. "Do you know who I am, Señor?" He pushed on without giving Diego time to answer, dropping some family name that Diego had never heard of. "I am Lieutenant Luis Raoul Caravales, of the Caravales of Toledo."

Diego stepped sideways to get directly in front of the man, standing even straighter to use his added inches. If Caravales wanted to pull rank, he'd have to do better than that pathetic showing. "And I am Don Diego de la Vega, of the de la Vegas of Madrid, Salamanca, Sevilla, Potosí, and California. I find it interesting that you cite a lineage from old Spain – aren't we supposed to be fighting for Mexico here?"

Caravales dropped all pretense then. "Get out of my way," he snarled, reaching one hand to push Diego aside while he made to step around him.

That was as far as he got. Marianna rapped out "_Alarm!_" Within thirty seconds, a pre-loaded rifle had been pulled out of its cache and tossed to each woman, who stood with it at the ready. Half a dozen of them, Marianna in the center, stood in a line facing the intruders, rifles ready but not aimed. Diego simply smiled lazily and stepped back to the side out of the way, swiveling briefly as his name was called to catch his own rifle – although he merely cradled it in his arms as he turned back to face the men. The children, he noted in passing, had all disappeared into the tent like they were trained to do.

Caravales and his mates were undeterred – gaping delightedly at the "show". Caravales even had the temerity to applaud when it was over. "Well done, ladies! So you _are_ a dance troupe!" and he shot a superior look at Diego before taking a step towards his chosen target.

Again, one step is all he got. Without a word, every woman, including the six lined up, snapped their rifles around and aimed them squarely at Caravales.

He scoffed. "Those guns aren't loaded!"

"Teresa!" Marianna called out, and Teresa – standing at the far end of the line – aimed her rifle to the sky and pulled the trigger, then brought it swftly back down. The shocking fire sounded like a cannon in the partially-enclosed space, and (Diego was sure) jerked heads around for half a mile.

Including Caravales', whose thunderstruck expression was priceless.

Marianna took one step forward. "My brother-in-law told you the truth, Lieutenant. We are not entertainers. We are the families of my husband's company of partisans, who now ride with the General. My husband, by the way, is also known as El Halcón."

"El Hal-halcón?" he stuttered; if possible, even more gobsmacked, and now – judging by the whites showing around his eyes – starting to feel a bit panicky. Diego decided he was enjoying his comeuppance a bit too much, but didn't care.

"You have heard of him," Marianna replied approvingly. "Good. Then please go." Deciding to use the line that had worked before, she added, "So I do not have to mention you to him."

He wasn't a _complete_ idiot, just an arrogant fool. Plastering an abashed smile on his face, Caravales started to slowly backpedal. "Certainly. My apologies for any misunderstanding, Señoras." Everyone noted the respectful change in address.

Just as he began to turn to his horse, Marianna took another step forward, lowering her rifle. "Lieutenant... there _is_ something else you could do for me, if you would be so kind."

"What is that?" he asked, determinedly pleasant. He looked over his shoulder at her. "Would you like a feather mattress for your bed?" he added, not quite sarcastic, naming an exquisite luxury item not to be found within a hundred miles.

"No," she laughed, then her face turned rueful. "Well, yes, actually, but not from you." She waited a beat, then leaned forward slightly as if sharing a confidence. "Spread the word. Leave. Us. Alone." And added the politest, most meaningless smile imaginable.

They watched it hit Caravales, who added a squirming albeit polite smile of his own. "Certainly, Señora. Good day, Señoras," he tipped his head to the women in general, then aimed one politely at Diego. "Señor." And with that, he mounted his horse as fast as he could, reined it around, and spurred down the slope, his wordless companions at his heels.

As the tension broke, and the women relaxed and began to laugh at his back, Diego turned with a broad grin and applauded around the rifle. "Well done, Señoras! All that practice paid off!"

"_That_ was what we've been practicing for?" Sofia asked sarcastically as the children began tentatively creeping back out of the tent.

Diego tipped his head, considering. "You routed an enemy by firing a single shot. Yes, it was."

"Well, I certainly hope we don't have to do it very often," Marianna commented.

"Marianna," he replied. "That shot was heard all the way to headquarters. I sincerely doubt you will _ever_ have to do it again."

Blowing out her breath, she gave him a side-eye and said nothing, turning to toss her rifle back to Ava and starting to say, "Teresa, don't forget to reload – oh. You already are. Sorry." Teresa glanced up from the job and gave her a 'so there' look. "Excuse me," Marianna added to no one, turned and walked into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind her.

The various activity slowly started up again, the women and children laughing and joking with each other about what had just happened. It wasn't until some fifteen minutes later that Diego realized Marianna had never come back out. Putting the stool he was working on aside again, he got up and walked to the door, past which, ever the gentleman, he never went without an invitation. "Marianna?" he called, raising the soft panel and looking inside. She was in "her" corner, sitting on a box, doing nothing – but he saw her wipe her cheeks with her fingers as she turned her face away. Chico sat beside her, his head on his mistress's lap, watching her intently.

"What is it?" he asked. Looping the panel back so it would stay open for everyone outside to "chaperone", he stepped carefully around the bedrolls scattered about and knelt a few feet away from her box. "Marianna? Please tell me."

The tears hadn't stopped, continuing to streak her cheeks, although she was sniffing, not sobbing. After another minute, she finally looked at him with pained eyes. "I hate this place," she admitted, her voice the merest whisper so it would not carry past his ears. "I hate how we live here." Now the dam was breached, the trickle continued – it had been building for weeks. "I hate walking out there, knowing everyone is staring at me. That's not false modesty, Diego, you know it's true."

"Yes, I know. I've seen them." It _was_ true – his sister-in-law couldn't step beyond the wagons without attracting attention from everyone nearby, simply by her beauty and her bearing.

She nodded gratefully at his refusal to deny it. "I've thought sometimes of getting another veil and wearing it, but that would only makes things worse, wouldn't it?"

"Yes."

She nodded again. "I miss our valley, our beautiful Valle Perdido. I miss the lives we had there, the rhythms of the days, the laughter and the song and even the work." She took a deep breath as he nodded, and whispered the truth. "Coming here was a mistake."

"Yes, it was," he agreed as softly. "But we didn't know that it would be."

"This life is..." Apparently she couldn't find a dire enough description, so she simply shook her head and moved on, even closer to her heart. "And it's so much more dangerous than before – not for us, but for them. For _him..._ Diego..." Her face was tragic. "What will I do... if I lose him?"

"You're not going to lose him!" he tried, but she shook her head forcefully.

"Do not give me meaningless reassurances," she whispered harshly. She would know the truth, always. Diego reminded himself of her steel spine.

"I'm not. Listen to me – no," he interrupted himself, "don't listen to _me_, listen to _Costa._ That old war dog knows more about combat, _and_ survival, than anyone else in Mexico. And you know what he told me the first day I came?" She shook her head when he paused for an answer. "He told me: Felipe can't be beaten. And he was right. Whether it's single combat, hand-to-hand, or the whole company. He can't be beaten. He always has one more trick up his sleeve, and another after that, and another, and another. And he's certainly not going to lead his men into a trap. You are _not_ going to lose him."

"But now he is sworn to follow orders. What if he is _ordered_ into a situation he cannot win?"

Diego shook his head again. "He's too smart for that. He'll either find a way to stay out, or find a way to win."

Marianna dropped her voice to an even deeper note. "And what if that way is to sacrifice himself for his men? You know he would do that. Without even hesitating. If that's what it took to save them."

"Yes, I know that. But I also know this: that his men would never let him. They love him too much. They would... drag him out by his ponytail if they had to. And _you_ know _that._"

That quirked her lips, and she had to nod.

"Marianna... You are not going to lose him. But let me tell you something else. If... god forbid... the worst should happen, you are now a de la Vega. We may not be a large family, but we are very close. We stick together. If he ever did not come back, _I_ would take care of you. I would take you back to Los Angeles with me, and always protect you. And if... god also forbid... I shouldn't make it either, then get yourself to Los Angeles. You know where it is, and I know you can get there. Tell Father – tell Don Alejandro _everything_. He will take you in, and take care of you. You have a family now."

"I have a family here," she reproved him.

"There, you see? You are _surrounded_ by people who love you, and just want to protect you." He paused. "You will never be alone again, Doña Marianna."

That was apparently exactly the right thing to say, because new tears silently started. Marianna buried her face in her hands for a minute, so he wouldn't see. When she dropped them, and began searching for a cloth to wipe her face, he brought out his clean handkerchief and put it in her hands.

This mood needed lightening. Just as he thought that, something else hit him; a small part of the answer. "You know what we're missing here?"

"Good wine?" she replied immediately, eyebrows raised.

"Besides that," he admitted.

"Everything _else!_" was her only half-sarcastic comeback. Then she took pity on him, asking gently, "What are we missing?"

"Lessons. I think those children have had quite enough of a holiday from school, don't you?" He tipped his head towards the open doorway and the courtyard beyond.

She glanced that way and nodded. "That's a good idea." Then she took a sudden breath as another thought hit her. "You know what else we're missing?"

"Good bread?" he asked with exactly the same intonation she'd used a moment earlier.

"We're working on it!" she exclaimed, slightly affronted. "Build us a decent oven!" Then she smiled, taking pity again, before explaining earnestly. "A routine. The _rhythm_ of our days, remember? Well," she went on, shaking her head, determination visible stealing over her, "the exact tasks may have changed, but we can still make them into a rhythm, to make the days go by."

"Oh, very good," he approved, then climbed to his feet before holding out a hand to help her up off the box. "Let's gather everyone together and hash it out."

Wiping her face a final time, she took his hand and stood – one of the few times she touched him or anyone. She even tightened her hand on his for a moment, peering up into his face. "Thank you, Diego. But... please don't tell Felipe I fell apart."

"It's already forgotten," he assured her.


	39. Chapter 39

**THIRTY-NINE**

The attack came two nights later. Diego had claimed one of the now-empty wagons for his bed and was sleeping lightly between its high walls. Sofia and two of the other bolder women, along with their children, had likewise claimed the other wagons, preferring the open to the crowded tent. They had discussed mounting an armed guard overnight, but decided that was too much – none of them wanted to do it, and it seemed both unnecessary and needlessly unfriendly.

Diego woke suddenly, slitting his eyes to the dim starlight under the moonless sky. Before he could ask himself what had woken him, it came again – Chico, underneath his wagon, growling softly – and then in the next breath the dog broke into wild barking. And now Rojo was stamping and snorting, and the other horses shifting nervously. They were all tethered relatively close to ropes run alongside the wagons, feet from Diego's bed.

Diego grabbed his loaded rifle and raised himself up on one elbow, peering over the edge of the wagon to try to see what was going on without showing himself. Now he heard men moving along the edges of the corral. He drew breath to sound the alarm, but Sofia beat him to it, yelling the signal from her wagon. The noise then coming from the tent drowned out that from the corral, but Diego had it now: several men were indeed attempting to steal their draft horses.

Suddenly there was shouting: the thieves had given up on silence now they were discovered, and were trying to slip between the kicking horses and the wagons to cut them free and lead them off. Diego fired a shot over their heads, then dove out of the wagon onto the ground inches before a return shot went singing over his head – well above, to avoid the horses. He came up with his knife, blessing Jaime for the lessons he'd given, and crouching, moved along under the horse's necks to Rojo at the outer end. There he met one of the thieves and they grappled with each other, each grabbing the other's knife hand and trying to stab with his own. Diego's superior height and strength won that battle, his blade scoring deep in the other's shoulder. The shadowy man gasped, dropped his knife, and darted away.

Suddenly there was more light amid the shouting. Diego turned to see Marianna had climbed the other wagon and was holding a lantern aloft, attempting to order the thieves to desist. Just as Sofia got up beside her to pull her down, Diego saw starlight flash off a gun barrel to his left – aimed at his sister-in-law. All he could do was yell "Down!" – but somehow both women heard and dropped instantly, miraculously managing not to drop the lantern and make it explode, just as the gun went off. Diego didn't look to see the damage, launching himself at the shooter instead. They likewise grappled for a moment, before several shots fired simultaneously from the wagons got everyone's attention. All the women were now lined up there, two holding lanterns, three more still pointing their discharged weapons to the sky, the rest pointing theirs over the horses.

"The next round is not a warning!" It was Sofia, still in command from sounding the alarm. "Now GO!"

The thieves took the hint and ran. Diego counted five shadows he was fairly certain of, but there could have been many more. He started towards the horses to calm then down and count them – when suddenly children's screams began sounding from inside the tent! "_Mama! Mama!_"

Diego instinctively began to dash around the end of the wagons towards the far side of the compound, yelling at the women in the first wagon to stay on guard, then adding, "Sara! Gun!" and she tossed her rifle to him. Catching it, he kept barreling towards where he knew the trouble must be, just as the first woman to make it inside the tent screamed, "The other side! They slashed the wall!" There was more, but he didn't wait to hear it. Skidding around the end of the far wagon, he saw three figures running down the slope away from the tent, each carrying something large and heavy on his shoulder. Diego knelt and brought Sara's gun to his shoulder, sighting on the nearest shadow. He waited one breath to make absolutely certain it was a box on his shoulder, not a child, then...

…jerked the muzzle up and fired the shot over the shadows. He was never going to shoot a man in the back. What had he been thinking? Another shot came from his left – someone shooting through the gap that had been cut – but they likewise missed. And now they were all three too far away, melting into the night with their ill-gotten gains.

Standing again, he tried to catch his breath, listening for any more trouble. It seemed to be over now. He yelled back, "Sara! Calm the horses and bring them inside the courtyard!" Then he walked towards the slash of light shining through the rip in the tent wall, calling out that it was him as he approached, then making sure none of the children inside were hurt or missing. Several other boxes and barrels and bags had been pulled out and were spread across the grass – they had been lucky to lose only the three carried off into the night. He picked them up and put them back inside the tent, telling the women to stack them to the side. Then he picked up his gun again and walked back around to the front.

Two women were already stirring the coals and coaxing the fire back up. He glanced over to the far side to count the horses now lined up and being tethered to _this_ side of the wagons – and stopped short. There were only six, including Rojo, when there should have been nine. Sara was just coming up to him, carrying a lit lantern. "They stole three of our draft horses in the confusion, Diego. Yes, I checked out under the trees. They're gone. The ropes were cut on that side."

Diego swore, then froze for a moment to bring himself back under control before placing a gentle hand on the distraught woman's shoulder. He called out in a low but penetrating voice through the panicked undertone, "Señoras! Quiet, please! Is anyone hurt? Are all the children all right?"

There was a small, quiet commotion as the rest of the families were reunited; then one by one, reported all were present and unharmed – all except for Sofia. She hadn't quite escaped that first shot at her and Marianna, but the damage was only a crease across her upper arm. "It's nothing. I'll be fine," she insisted, as tough as nails. Her ten-year-old daughter was already tying a bandage around her mother's arm.

"Good," Diego went on. "I saw the second group carry off three things. Is that all that is missing?"

"I'm not sure, but I think so," Marianna answered, one of only two childless women. "I don't know what was in them yet."

"Don't worry about it until the morning," Diego told her. "Inventory will keep till then." He looked around, tasting the panic still running just under the surface. "Listen – we came through this all right. We took some material losses, yes, but every single one of us is alive, and with only a single minor wound. Those are _damn_ good results from an attack – a _battle_ – in middle of the night. We should – _you_ should – be _very_ proud!" He waited a few beats to let that sink in, feeling the tension start to drain away, very slowly. "We will have to make some changes, yes, to prevent any further losses. But we'll tackle them in the morning." He was about to go on to suggest they settle down and at least try to nap, while he stood guard the remainder of the night – but then Doña Marianna stepped forward, her face a mask of determination, affront, and barely-contained fury.

"Changes, yes, but not those you are thinking of, Don Diego." Her sudden renewed use of his honorific took him by surprise. She had stepped to his side, and now turned to address the whole group, her voice as hard and flat as it had been that day on the road. "Coming here was a mistake. We all know it was. And now, we will rectify it. In the morning, Don Diego, you will find our horses – or find us three new ones. I don't care how. I don't care how much it costs, if you must buy them. But I want to be rolling out of here by sunset! We... are... _leaving_ this place!" At least half of the women were nodding along by then.

"But if we leave the camp, how will our men find us?" Sara raised the main objection.

"They will find us. Felipe will find me. I have no doubt of that. But we will contrive to get word to them, either by leaving messages here somehow, or..." She turned to Diego. "Would you be willing to ride to the battlefield after we resettle and find _them?_" She could not command him, her eyes admitted. That incredibly dangerous mission – dangerous especially for _him _– would be strictly voluntary.

Diego hesitated only a moment, knowing it was a huge request, before he slowly nodded. Then he held up one hand. "But, just as the Capitán did before we left the valley, I'm going to ask we not make this decision so suddenly, in the heat of battle – or the aftermath of one. Let me see what I can do about our horses – or new ones – in the morning, and we'll discuss it, and vote if need be. Because if we can't get any horses to replace the ones we've lost – well, Rojo can fill in for one, but we'd have to leave the fourth wagon behind, and some of our things." He looked around, unsure of his footing. "Is that acceptable, Señoras? Doña Marianna?"

He noted that all the others, without exception, silently looked to see Marianna's answer first. She looked aside for a long moment, into the darkness away from all of them, and he could see from her profile the effort she was making to keep from losing control. Several deep breaths later, however, she lifted her head, turned back, and simply nodded. And one by one, as he looked around, the others did, as well.

* * *

It was a long, trying morning. Diego found no signs of their missing horses, unfortunately – not that he had expected to. Those animals had doubtless been spirited away from the camp altogether for sale elsewhere, or were being hidden too well for spying out. Yes, he had picked up their tracks in the first light, but they had disappeared into the camp with all its thousands of residents within a quarter mile. The same for the thieves who had slashed the tent. (Before he had even left, Ava and Maria, their best seamstresses, had begun patching the damaged canvas wall; one standing on each side of the wall, they began passing sturdy needles pulling thick thread back and forth through the material.)

Since their own could not be recovered, he was forced into trying to find some for sale. And here he ran into wall after wall. Not one single animal was for sale that morning. In fact, the vast majority of the horses which had originally been brought to the camp had long since been purchased, stolen or simply requisitioned away by Guerrero's army, to pull cannons or provide mounts for officers and cavalry. The few remaining were either too broken down to be of use, or too well guarded and absolutely not for sale. Nor was he about to turn to horse theft – although the thought did cross his mind, before being banished with a derisive snort for the idea of actually committing the crime for which he had been framed.

Still, he gave it his best shot – and then the next six, criss-crossing the camp all morning in his ultimately vain search for replacements. At last, with the overhead sun nearing noon, he turned the very patient Rojo's head back towards their own encampment.

And rode into a scene of controlled chaos. The women weren't waiting. They were busily packing everything – _everything _– back into all four wagons, just as they had come.

"What in the world?" he asked aloud. "I thought we were going to discuss this, and vote." Nobody was really looking at him. Finally, he grabbed one woman's arm as she passed – it was Ava. "What's going on?"

"You had better ask Marianna." She pulled away and continued, head down.

He didn't have to ask for her, here she came now. Seeing him, she rushed over, carrying a bundle in her arms. "Did you find more horses?"

"No, nothing is available. But – "

She cut him off, angrier than he'd ever seen her. "_No?_ Then you have to go back! Diego we _need_ more horses! We are leaving, _now!_"

Diego gaped. "What is your hurry, all of a sudden?"

"We are going! We cannot stay!" Finally, he saw it around her eyes – she wasn't angry, she was near to panic, just barely keeping it together.

"Why? I'm not moving till you tell me what's going on. This isn't the attack. What is it?"

She shook her head, unable to reply. Everyone else had stopped to watch. Finally, Sofia came over to stand by Marianna's side, put a hand on the distraught woman's shoulder and turned to Diego. "There's disease in the camp. We heard it this morning when we went to get water for the day. Influenza, dysentery, maybe even cholera, they said."

"I cannot stay, Diego!" Marianna found her voice. "I cannot stay here, and watch my family drop, one by one! I will not! We are going! Now!" Turning, she saw the audience and nearly screamed at them to get back to work.

"Marianna! But we don't have enough horses!" Diego tried to catch her shoulders with his hands to stop her but she twisted away, distraught, and half-ran past him to the far wagon to add her bundle.

"I don't care if we have to pull one of them ourselves – or leave it behind! I don't care! I cannot stay here!" Her voice was getting higher and higher – and her panic was beginning to effect the others, including the horses they had left. They began stomping and snorting in their line beyond the wagons.

This was not going to do. He _had_ to calm her down. Diego stepped forward again and grabbed her shoulders, too tightly this time for her to move. He'd apologize later. "Marianna, stop it. Please. Just stop for a minute, and take a deep breath. You're panicking, and it's not helping. Marianna – "

He stopped. She had ceased struggling, and was staring past his head at the tent, eyes widening, jaw dropping. He turned to look...

...and saw a small, familiar, red-tailed hawk landing to perch awkwardly on the edge of the tent.

It was Alaric.

Felipe and the company had returned.


	40. Chapter 40

**FORTY**

"Alaric!" Marianna breathed pure joy, her face transformed. "He's here!" She whirled around and ran to the edge of their "courtyard" between the two front wagons, looking frantically around to try to spot the returning company, joined by everyone else. "Where is he? Where are they?"

Looking back at the hawk, Marianna called to him, "Alaric! Go and find Felipe! Go!" He didn't move. "Oh, you _stupid_ bird!" she moaned, whirling back around to look herself.

Suddenly an idea hit Diego, and he blew out an exasperated huff. "Cover your ears," he said briefly, then let out a one-note, ear-splitting whistle, to everyone's amazement.

"Did the Capitán learn it from you?" Sofia wanted to know.

"I don't remember teaching it to him, but probably. It's how I used to call Toronado – back when Diablo was Toronado. He used to be mine," he added by way of explanation.

Searching the camp, they still saw no sign of any group of horsemen coming through the mass of tents and humanity down below and across the hills. Just as Diego was beginning to worry that Alaric's presence was not the sign they had taken it for, however, Sara suddenly pointed far over to their right. "_There!_"

Sure enough, there was a double line of horsemen; no mistaking Diablo in the lead. Marianna and several others began waving frantically but to no effect.

"Keep waving," Diego said, and whistled again. That time they saw Diablo rear a moment later as the sound reached him, then Felipe looked around quickly, spotted the waving women, and pointed before turning Diablo's head and coming at a faster pace.

"There's not enough," someone whispered, horrified recognition seeping in. "There's not enough of them."

"They're bringing riderless horses." They had taken two pack horses, but now there were five being led without riders.

"Mario?" It was Gina. "Mario? Do you see him?" Silence. "Sofia, your eyes are better than mine. Please tell me you see him," she begged.

Sofia cleared her throat, and began naming the men. "The Capitán. Miguel. Javier. Gino." On and on, (gasping at her husband's name) until she reached Costa, bringing up the rear. She had not named Mario, or Manuel, or Pedro. Wracked with regret, she shook her head at Gina and Ava, the two new widows.

When they reached the site and pulled up, Felipe's face was also wretched. He could see from their reactions that the missing men had already been identified. "I'm sorry," was all he could say to the widows. Then he dismounted with the rest, scooped up Marianna and held her as tightly as the other married men did their wives. The next few minutes were a muted pandemonium, everyone talking at once. Jaime came to greet Diego with a smile, asking him "What's going on?", but Diego just waved him off, returning his attention to the crowd.

He saw Marianna pull away from Felipe, still distraught, shaking her head at something and turning back to the tent. Remembering his brother's extra-sharp hearing, he whispered sharply, "Felipe! She's panicking, and it's spreading! Calm. Her. Down!" Felipe jerked his head slightly at his name, then went after his wife and pulled her back into his arms against her protests, whispering in her ear until finally she sagged against him.

At that moment, one man's voice rose above the rest, outraged. "You were _attacked?_"

Diego took a page from the Capitán's book, and gave a sharp whistle to get everyone's silence. "Señores! Señoras! Please, let's just do this once!" Quieting down immediately, the community shuffled a bit so everyone could see and hear him. He took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts quickly, so he wouldn't waste time giving his 'report'.

"First of all, let me just lay it out plainly: coming here was a mistake, but we didn't know that before. Now we do. We can't _do_ anything here; all we can do is sit around and eat up our stores, and pretty soon we won't be able to supply you fighters. And we can't do anything to replace what we eat. So we are leaving, away from this camp, to find an abandoned farm or some land we can work. That's why we are packing up."

"Second," he went on, "yes, we were attacked last night by thieves." He threw up a hand again and talked fast. "Nobody was injured except for Sofia, who was scratched by a bullet, and Chico, who we think was kicked in the ribs. Both of them will be fine in a few days. We lost a little bit of food, but more importantly, we lost three of our draft horses. I was down in the camp all this morning trying to find them, or find three others to buy, but I came up empty."

"And there's one more thing. The reason we want to leave quickly, as soon as possible, is because there is disease down there in the camp. We've heard influenza, dysentery, perhaps even cholera. Now hold on!" he added quickly as a murmur swept through the company. "_None_ of us is sick – yet! And we want to _keep_ it that way!"

"If no one is sick, then why is Marianna so upset?" came from one side.

Felipe, who had been holding her close all this time, whipped his head around and snarled. "Because she lost half her family, including her mother, to cholera when she was a child. You'd be upset, too."

"I did, and I am," came from perhaps the last source Diego expected. Costa stepped out of the crowd and into the open space near Diego, before turning to sweep the others with an eagle eye. "But I am _not_ panicking – and neither will anyone else! Yes, we are moving out, moving our families to a better place, but we will do it in a Calm... Orderly... _Fashion!_ Is that _clear?_" he barked out, absolutely the fearsome Lieutenant.

It was precisely what was needed, and nipped the incipient hysteria in the bud. Everyone straightened up just a tiny bit, and some nodded back, lips pressed tight.

Costa turned again to Diego. "Alcalde! Your orders, sir!"

_Who, me?_ Diego thought briefly, but he reacted to Costa's manner just as everyone else had. "First, like I said, we have lost three draft horses. Rojo can fill in for one, but we'll need two more of yours to pull all the wagons, so we don't have to leave one behind, and all its contents."

"_Our_ horses?" one of the fighters objected. "But they're riding horses, not draft animals!"

"Knock it off!" This from Felipe again. "Unless you want to pull the wagon yourself?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Our largest horses will also fill in, starting with Diablo." A corner of Diego's mind admired that bit – nobody else would dare beg off if the commander's high-strung horse did the duty first. "We'll pair them off with the calmest draft horses, and you'll walk beside your horse as he pulls to keep him steady. Every horse who isn't pulling a wagon will carry the women and children, or some of the cargo, to lighten the wagons. Every man will walk, until we get where we're going. Understood?" Nods all around. "Then start packing!"

"Wait, stop!" Diego threw up his hands again to stop the general movement. "Sorry, Capitán. There are a few things we need to go over first. Please listen to me for five minutes!"

"What is it?" Felipe asked, pointedly turning to face his brother squarely, Marianna now by his side, also listening, even if her face was pale.

"As I said a minute ago, no one is sick here now. But until we are far enough away, we need to take precautions to keep it that way! First, I'm sorry, Señores, but if any of you picked up _anything_, any food or weapon or anything at all, down there in the camp this morning as you came through, throw it in the midden! I don't care what it is. It might have been contaminated. Just throw it away, we'll get another. Understood?" More nods. Diego noted nobody looked particularly panicked, so perhaps that wasn't an issue. He hoped not, but left it and plowed on ahead.

"All right. Now, listen. These diseases often travel on food or water – but heat seems to destroy them. From this moment until we're at least five miles away, _any_ water that you use, for drinking, washing, or bathing, must first be _boiled_ and then cooled. Now we've been boiling water anyway. Selma, how much boiled water do we have right now?"

Selma looked startled, but answered. "Almost a full barrel."

"All boiled?" he double-checked and she nodded. "Good. I am putting you in complete charge of the water, then. Everybody – _everybody!_ If you need water for any reason, ask Selma. She will pour some out for you – but only a little, until we're well away. Drink sparingly, and don't wash or bathe until then. Got it?"

"What about our horses?" from one of the men.

Diego held up a hand for a moment, furiously searching his memory. "I've never heard of a horse catching any of those diseases, or passing it on. They _should_ be safe drinking from unboiled water. Selma, I think we have a barrel of that, too, don't we?" She nodded. "Then use that for the horses – again, ask Selma to make sure which one – but only give them what they absolutely need until we're away. Can you do that?" This time there were more enthusiastic nods. That was more like it.

"And food must be treated the same. _All_ food must be _cooked_, and eaten _hot._ We'll stop and cook a big meal this evening, once we're away. All our stores should be ok, however, as long as they've been kept covered. But that reminds me. Señoras, children, have _any_ of you eaten any of our trail bars since we arrived here? I know I haven't. Has anyone even opened one of those boxes? Anyone? Please speak up if you have, we need to know." He waited a minute, looking around, but every woman and child was shaking their head. "Good. Then they will not have been contaminated. And they won't be, as long as we keep the boxes sealed until we're away from here. So _nobody _goes in those crates, for any reason. Or _any_ of the food containers, until I give the word that it's all right. Got it?" Again, they nodded.

Someone asked about the tent then, and Diego briefly explained how he had bought it, brand new. It had never been used, so could not have gotten contaminated. "In fact, it's probably helped keep us all safe – the women and children have mostly been sleeping inside it, not breathing the night air." He didn't bother with the exceptions. "So it's fine. We'll take it with us. Although I'm not sure how long it will take to get it down," he added, worried.

Costa snorted. "No problem."

Beside Diego, Jaime was also grinning. He nodded to Costa, the other old soldier in the group. "Don't worry," he told Diego. "Between us, we'll have it down and packed in no time."

"There's just one more thing," Diego finished, "and that's us. None of us have spent much time in the camp, so we haven't been exposed."

"Except for you, this morning," Sofia said softly.

Diego took a deep breath. "Yes, except for me. That's why I'll stay just a few feet away from everyone. And keep a careful eye on myself. But we all need for each and every one of us to do the same. For the next week, if you have _anything_, any trouble at all – headache, stomach ache, a rash, a cough, a fever... if you feel sick in any way, please, for the love of God, _please_ let me know – At. Once!" That worried people, so he hastened to reassure them. "No, we won't leave you behind, or probably even quarantine anyone. But we need to know, so we can keep an eye on each other, and catch anything before it starts! Understood?"

"Anything else?" Felipe asked Diego, who shook his head; he was done. "Where were you thinking of going?"

"Which way are the armies?"

"South. And heading further south."

"Then north. North-west, back along the way the armies came. I'm sure that before too long we'll come across a large farm – or several close together – which have been... abandoned... that we can take over." Their owners killed by the army, he didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. Everyone understood.

"Anyone else have any questions?" the Capitán asked of the group at large. No one spoke. "Then let's get packing, and get _all _of us the fuck out of here!"


	41. Chapter 41

**FORTY-ONE**

It only took the community three days to find their new home: one large farm and several smaller ones around it, all of which had been abandoned after the Army of New Spain had rolled through a few weeks before, burning and killing. Surviving owners, if any, had fled and not returned, so they all felt justified in "squatting" on the farms and bringing them back into production.

On the afternoon of the second day of their walk, Diego, leading Rojo with several bags of grain on his back, found himself overtaking Felipe and Marianna as they paced along beside Diablo at the head of their little caravan, arms around each other's waist, with Chico frisking around their feet. Diego stooped to pet the dog as he ran up with a happy bark. "He seems well healed." He had been favoring one side after the attack; apparently kicked by either a horse or a thief.

"I have a bone to pick with you, Don Diego!" Marianna said pertly. At his quizzical look, she tipped her head at her mate. "Why did you never let Felipe have a dog as he was growing up? All boys should have a puppy!"

"It wasn't me!" he protested. "It was Father! He was bitten by a dog as a boy, and never liked them, ever since. _I_ wasn't allowed to have one, either."

"I never knew that," Felipe commented thoughtfully. Something else was on his mind, however. "Diego... I need to talk with you about something too."

"Oh?"

"Like I said the other day, the armies seem to be moving south, maybe west. Even though _we've_ angled a bit west, too, we're still moving in opposite directions."

Diego was nothing if not quick on the uptake. "You won't be able to get to us as often."

"Maybe not at all, or not for months. But we still need your support – the food and supplies. We do a bit of hunting, like always – although not as much these days, and everyone else is hunting, too. And I refuse to start _requisitioning_ food from local farmers. We'd be as bad as the Spanish, then."

"So the answer then, is you need us – me – to bring the supplies to you."

"If you would be willing. It's going to be dangerous – especially for you. And maybe difficult to find us – or get through the enemy lines. You'd run a very high risk of being captured – and then executed for desertion. But I'm having trouble coming up with any alternatives. The General is stretched enough as it is, without filling our mouths, too."

They walked on in silence for several yards, as Diego tasted the idea. It was a daunting proposition, to be sure. Bravery was not his problem; it never had been. But traveling an unknown distance by himself across unknown territory, possibly held by his enemies, bringing valuable food and supplies...

"I wouldn't ask you to do it alone," Felipe broke in as if reading his mind. "You'd need at least one more, if only so you can take turns sleeping and guarding the cargo."

"You'd leave one of your men behind?"

"Leave? As in me ask them to stay?" Felipe grinned. "No. But if someone were to volunteer..."

Something was slightly off, and a moment later Diego realized what it was. The Capitán, he had learned, was always six steps ahead. "Do you have someone particular in mind for this? No, strike that. Of course you do. Who is it, and why?"

"Javier," was the surprising reply – surprising because Diego had thought the young man well established as a partisan by now. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Felipe shook his head. "No, he's becoming a good fighter and tracker. He learns damn fast. But... he's struggling with it. I can see it."

"Has he taken a life?"

"Yes, several, these last few weeks. He's bloodied. But he's not at all comfortable with it – and I don't want him to be. I don't want to turn him into another me."

Now, this _was_ a surprise. Felipe had seemed, these past few months, to be so comfortable inside his own skin, in his self-appointed role as partisan capitán, that Diego would have thought he had no qualms in recruiting others. He filed that away to think about later.

"Do you think he'd be happy with the change?"

"Not if _I_ told him to stay. He's still trying to impress me – and the others. But if _you_ were to _ask_ him to help you – and our families. If you presented it right...", he waved a vague hand, "all the danger on the trail, and the hard work farming, that you need _his_ help. I think he would be very happy – much happier than on the battleground with us. But he has to be approached the right way. He should never suspect that he's being..." Felipe struggled for a word, as he frequently did.

"Managed?" Diego suggested.

Felipe shook his head. "Diverted."

"Oooo, that's a _much_ better word. All right. I'll ask him." He shook his head then, grinning. "You're sneaky."

He'd taken a few more steps before realizing Felipe had stopped (pulling Marianna to a halt beside him).

"You're just now figuring that out?" Felipe asked when Diego turned, then shot him a disappointed look.

Diego snorted. "No," he replied firmly. "Just commenting. You've always been sneaky," he went on as the three started up again.

"I've had to be, to survive." Felipe quickly shook his head. "I'm not complaining, or bragging. Just stating a fact."

"I know," Diego held up a hand for peace. He sighed. "I wish I'd done better for you."

"You _did_. I have no complaints. You weren't responsible for fate, or chance, or what my own brain told me."

Diego shook his head again. "Maybe. But there are still things I could have done better."

Felipe took a breath to argue, but Marianna stopped him. "Everyone has regrets, beloved. It makes them do better in the future. Stop fussing." Laughing, Felipe paused for a second and pulled her up for a kiss, then walked on in silence.

Diego backtracked mentally to the previous subject. "I'll ask Javier to help," he repeated. "Don't worry, I'll do it right. I'd feel even better with a third man," he admitted, "but I don't want to take any more of your seasoned warriors. I'll find someone else."

Marianna glanced sideways, eyebrows raised. "Why not a woman?" she wanted to know. "Sofia, for instance. She's tough as nails, and a good rider and a good shot. So are many others." She saw his hesitation and laughed. "I'm not pressing you on it now. Think about it. Let all of them know what you're planning, and I'll bet you'll get volunteers."

He drew a breath to agree, when Felipe, looking at the road ahead, stopped suddenly and whistled the caravan to a halt. Diego recognized the riders who were cantering towards them a moment later: Costa and two other fighters – former farmers – all unmarried, whom the Capitán had sent out the day before as scouts, to try to locate a possible site.

All three were grinning broadly as they rode up and Costa gave the "all is well" signal, a chopping motion with his right hand, parallel to the ground. They had found it.

* * *

The company couldn't stay and help them settle into their new homes; General Guerrero's army was marching southwest, the Army of New Spain in pursuit, eager to force another battle, and the General's scouts and skirmishers were needed at the front. They regretfully rode away in their double column the very next morning after claiming the large farm, leaving Diego, Javier, a dozen women and two dozen children waving after them, swallowing their tears and each wondering if they would be the next widow or orphan.

Diego, Felipe, and several others had spent an hour the night before poring over the map – the same one Guerrero had sent – and attempting to fill in the gaps in the region between them and the armies. Felipe had offered to leave the map with Diego, who had stared a moment before snorting a laugh. "Oh, _try_ to say that like you mean it next time, Felipe. I know how much you love that map." Caught out, Felipe merely grinned – and carefully folded it up and stowed it in a saddlebag.

Diego also got Costa and Jaime to help them set up the pavilion before they left, erecting it in the space between the house and barn on the main farm. With those two experts showing them how, it was up in a fraction of the time it had taken Diego and the women to figure it out the first time.

Then began the long, exhausting process of claiming that farm and the three small ones nearby, deciding who would live in each house, moving in and setting up. Diego and Javier claimed separate corners of the loft above the big barn, where the other bachelors would also sleep when they were present, giving over the house to the women and children. It was only partly out of a sense of propriety, keeping all reputations intact, even – especially – amongst themselves.

They made rough surveys of the fields and pastures – and rounded up and counted the abandoned cows and sheep. They parceled out responsibility for fields and animals as they had done in Valle Perdido, although they decided together what to plant or pasture where. The regrets they now felt about leaving the vast majority of their tools and equipment behind was softened by what they "inherited" from the previous owners. Don Diego and Doña Marianna met with the remaining residents of the small nearby village to explain their presence and plans, and receive the townspeople's permission to take over the farms. (Not that they actually needed that permission, legally or morally, but their asking went far in smoothing things over with their new neighbors, and gaining their tentative acceptance.)

The army had swept through and done their damage the previous fall, during harvest – so many of the crops had been left to rot in the fields, although the neighbors had managed to save some for themselves. Diego and the women decided to work with what they had – the corn, beans, and wheat had self-seeded over the winter, so the new farmers decided on a wait and see approach for those fields, supplementing with their own seeds where needed. They laboriously cleared many others, plowing what needed to be (cursing through their new blisters), and carefully planting seeds they had saved from their former fields last fall as the weather warmed into spring – perfect timing.

The pavilion became their new cantina patio; the place everyone gathered late each afternoon, after the endless chores were finished, to relax, talk, have formal and informal lessons, and work on more sedentary tasks, just as they had done before. Tables and chairs were brought from each abandoned house (and a few more such scattered about; Javier had an unsuspected talent for finding things, making Diego even more glad of their "diversion" of the young man), and more were made to supplement them over the following weeks, until they would be able to seat the entire community when next the company was able to come home. Sara and Julia, who had both made a point of learning as much as they could about the process from old Juanita (once she had declared her intention of staying behind), began small, tentative batches of trail bars, seeing what would work from their new, altered supplies, as Diego worked hard to recreate the dozens of drying racks and other tools needed. Two cows, the worst-off from their long neglect, were killed and butchered with the help of a knowledgeable new neighbor, and cured in the smokehouse found on the site.

Late one afternoon, Diego came upon Marianna struggling to convince a cow to move into the barn to be milked. "Stupid beast," she muttered after Diego finally got her to move with a wicked slap on the rump.

"It's harder here than it was before," Diego commented. "We're all exhausted."

"Harder than the valley, yes. But much better than that damned camp." Diego stared at her – that was the first time he'd ever heard her curse. "At least I don't have to worry about being stared at whenever I go outside," she continued by way of explanation, "or being taken for a whore." Her voice was bitter. He'd never realized how deeply that leering lieutenant had affected her.

"No," he agreed kindly. "It is much better. And we're able to accomplish what we need to here – even if it _is_ a lot of hard work."

She nodded back, and tiredly went to fetch the milking stool and bucket.

* * *

About a month after their arrival, Diego, Javier, and Sofia made the first journey south and west, each leading a pack horse loaded with trail bars left from their original stores, dried smoked beef, and other supplies. It took them a little more than a week of careful riding, staying hidden in the trees whenever possible, to find first the rebel army, and then their own company – but the welcome they received made up for all hardships. Diego was able to reassure the Capitán and the others that all was well (not mentioning how exhausted everyone was; surely that would ease over time) and that the new arrangement would work. After a day to rest, back the three rode to the farm, just as carefully but a little faster, able to take a more direct route now they knew the way. Sofia had insisted on taking her turn on guard each night, letting the two men sleep just a little longer. By the time they got home, she had proved her uncomplaining worth time and again, and it was accepted without discussion that she would ride with them each time.

They made another trip the following month, carrying the new bars from Sara and Julia among other things. The armies had chased each other back to the northwest, so it took nearly two weeks on a roundabout journey to find them, but again, they made a successful round trip, without incident. At least that trip home was shorter.

Two weeks after that second return, an outlying company from the Army of New Spain rode hard through their village, bent on vindictive destruction.

"Diego! _Diego!"_

At the repetition of his name, slightly louder the second time, Diego looked up from the bench he was hammering together for the gathering tent, to see Javier riding _hard_ up the path from the pueblo where he had been bargaining for some hides. He pulled his lathered horse to a skidding stop a few feet away. Whatever recriminations Diego might have had for the animal's treatment died on his lips at the young man's next words.

"Spanish soldiers, heading this way! There's smoke up the valley – thick, black smoke – they're burning their way down!" Glancing southwest, Diego now spotted the smoke rising in the distance.

"How many?"

"A man rode through, said he saw a full company, at least!" Nearly two hundred soldiers, possibly more. This was no small unit of outriders that they could fight off.

"Sound the alarm!" Diego was instantly all business. "You take the west farms, I'll take the east. Full alert! Get into hiding. Do NOT fight! Go!" Without even watching Javier take off, he turned towards the house, where he knew Marianna was working that morning. She had heard the commotion, however, and was already running towards him. "Alarm! A full company, coming through! Get everyone here into hiding! We're off to warn the others!" Knowing she had things well in hand, he ran for Rojo in the corral, quickly slipped on his bridle, and rode him bareback east.

They had worked out several simple plans in case of various emergencies in the first weeks after their arrival, so everyone knew just what to do. As it was still morning, they were all scattered across their four farms, but within a quarter of an hour, the three of them had spread the alarm, and all the families were heading towards their various hiding places: hidden ravines, a roomy cave, a thorny thicket deep among trees. Javier's designated place was at the furthest farm, helping those two mothers get their infants and young children into hiding and then standing hidden guard nearby. It would be disastrous to lose their seedling crops, but all their lives were much more important.

Once Diego was certain all were hidden safely away, he mounted Rojo again and rode warily towards the pueblo. He needed information. The town was as small as Los Angeles had been in the early days; not much more than a trading post, a church, a few houses, and the inevitable cantina, all gathered around a small dirt plaza with a tiny fountain over the natural spring. It wouldn't attract enemy attention by itself, unless that enemy was burning _everything,_ as they had the previous fall. Judging from the increasing smoke on the horizon, they might be doing the same thing again.

The pueblo appeared deserted; the townspeople had already been warned and were in hiding. Diego tucked Rojo away in a tumble-down shed and walked quietly into the center to lean unobtrusively against one corner of the cantina. And there he waited.

Half an hour later, the troops began to appear, marching in formation down the road – and on through the town. Apparently the commander, riding out in front in all his beribboned glory, had called a halt to the pillaging and burning, formed the scattered men back up, and were now marching them off to their rendezvous with other companies, having made their point. Diego shrank back into the shadows and watched them pass, annoyed at their laughing and joking after having destroyed who knows how many civilian lives and livelihoods.

He was peering forward for another glimpse of the banners, trying to identify the unit. So he did not see the one soldier, marching in the middle of the formation, glance at him. Did not see him do a double-take. Did not see him stare. Did not see the rage and disgust come over his face. And did not see him shrink back suddenly behind the soldier next to him when Diego glanced back, so he would not be seen in return.

Diego made certain the Spanish soldiers were well on down the road, miles past their pueblo, having missed their farms by a quarter of a mile, before he returned to give the all clear. Forgoing the remainder of whatever they had been doing, all the families gathered at the tent to reassure each other and process their fright. Their hiding places had not been rigorously tested, but were judged good nevertheless, as was the plan overall, with a few minor tweaks. Marianna decided to call for an early lunch, to give them all something else to concentrate on, and afterwards, they slowly began picking up their usual afternoon tasks.

Early that evening, Felipe and the company unexpectedly rode in, fast and furious, unspeakably relieved to find the farms _not_ in ruins and families destroyed. The rebels had received intelligence that the Spanish were going on a rampage – the company which had gone through their town was not the only one – to vent frustration and attempt to draw the rebels out. General Guerrero had sent only a portion of his forces out to deal with the menace as they could, while keeping his core companies together against an attack by the Spanish, in case – as suspected – this was merely a diversion. Felipe had barely asked permission before galloping off, hell for leather, to defend his community. It was almost a let-down to find no battle being offered – but one they would gladly take, any day.

So a large, impromptu party was thrown together; a tasty, filling meal hastily prepared; beer and wine kegs broken into; and music played until late under the canvas pavilion, its sides drawn up to let the cool evening breezes play. Exhausted from the long day, Diego left early, wandering towards his bed in the loft of the big barn.

"Diego! Hold up!" Jaime decided to retire early, as well, so the two of them walked into the barn together, pausing in the large open doorway to let their eyes adjust to the gloom, as the last of the sunset streamed in behind them.

"I knew it. I _knew_ it was you! And now I have _both_ of you!" The hiss came from their right, as a shadow detached itself from an empty stall and stalked a few feet away, pistol prominently pointed at the two friends. It took Diego and Jaime a moment to identify the soldier as he came into the light, dressed in a rather tattered and dirty uniform, lighter patches showing where insignia had been removed. But the insane fury in his shifty little eyes left no doubt of his identity.

Corporal Pedrona.


	42. Chapter 42

_**Author's Note:** Content warning for some gross medical stuff. It's only a couple of paragraphs, which I will set off with _[===CW===]

* * *

**FORTY-TWO**

Pedrona hissed at Jaime and Diego again, jerking his pistol to motion them away from the doorway and across the open bay to stand against a wooden stall wall. Diego had never felt fury and outrage like that which washed over him then, staring at the man who had been his nemesis – and had forced Jaime at gunpoint to apply the lash, the scars of which he could still feel and would always carry. He could hear Jaime breathing hoarsely and knew his friend was a hair-trigger away from exploding, as well.

The Corporal – _former_ Corporal, Diego realized, glancing at the now-rankless uniform – was gloating, claiming he would regain his lost rank and prestige when he brought these two "deserters" to justice. Apparently he had run from El Halcón's attack like the coward he was, only _he_ had run back _to_ the Army of New Spain, rather than melting away into the forest like all the other men. Only that hadn't worked out as well for him as he had hoped.

Glancing quickly to one side, Pedrona spotted a short piece of rope, grabbed it, and tossed it to Jaime. "Tie his hands," he sneered, pointing towards Diego, adding, "you're good at that, aren't you?"

Jaime hadn't caught the rope, but let it fall to his feet where it puddled as he stared daggers at Pedrona, his face slowly turning purple. Glancing at him, Diego knew his friend was moments from going ballistic and reaching for the pistol he wore at his back, which apparently Pedrona hadn't spotted. Pedrona took a step closer, sticking his pistol out and aiming it at their chests, switching it back and forth erratically. With a quick glance, Diego judged the distance: perfect.

"Jaime," he said softly. When Jaime glanced his way, he winked – with the eye away from Pedrona – and said, "it's all right." He added a lightning-fast glance at Jaime's pistol, then looked at Pedrona, put his head down as if beaten, and slowly began turning to his right, away from Jaime, as if preparing to be tied.

Pedrona snickered. "That's right, coward." Swinging his pistol to keep it aimed at Diego, he turned his head back slightly to tell Jaime to pick up the rope – and thereby missed Diego's next move altogether.

Which was to kick off with his left foot, whirl around, and bring his right heel up as fast as he could move, kicking the pistol out of Pedrona's hand, just as Felipe had shown him all those months earlier. Jaime drew his own gun out at the same moment, pointed it, and shot Pedrona in the chest before the little man even realized his gun was out of his hand. Diego, meanwhile, used the circular momentum to follow Pedrona's gun, rolled over it, came up with it and added another bullet in Pedrona's torso as a lethal exclamation point.

Pedrona staggered, thrown back by the double impacts, one after the other. He gaped down at his chest, gasped once as the twin wounds, inches apart, began pouring blood – and collapsed onto his back on the barn's dirt floor.

The two friends, one standing, one lying, slowly lowered their guns, staring at their erstwhile enemy, breathing hard to catch their own breaths. They both turned their heads to look at each other at the same moment – and nearly giggled in shock and relief.

"I thought Felipe didn't teach you that kick," Jaime commented.

"He didn't. He just showed me. I had to promise I wouldn't try it. And don't tell him I did, please. I think I pulled something," Diego admitted, as an odd pain from his hip began letting itself be known.

Jaime started laughing for real – but just then, pounding feet heralded the arrival of the Capitán himself, his own pistol drawn and held two-handed, as he darted through the open barn door and skidded to a stop, looking wildly around for the source of the shots. "_Stop! It's over!_" yelled both men, throwing up their hands for good measure.

Felipe jerked his pistol up skywards in response, then spotted Pedrona's body on the floor. As Costa – with more men behind – likewise burst in, Felipe turned and shouted for them to stand down, it was done, whatever it was. Then he shot another look at the dead soldier, turned to Diego and asked sarcastically, "Friend of yours?", before shooing the others back out before him. They heard him tell off a squad to make a quick sweep to make sure there weren't any other soldiers lurking about, then headed back to the tent for another beer.

Jaime stepped sideways to a bale of hay and sat heavily, as Diego finally sat up straight, and they both stared at Pedrona again. "Amigo..." Jaime began. "I am not sorry he's dead. Nor that I killed him."

"Nor me," Diego realized as he spoke, even though his gut was roiling. "And we both shot." He paused. "The firing squad solution."

Jaime nodded. "We'll never know which of us killed him."

"Actually," Diego added, looking at the two bullet holes, so close together and so near Pedrona's heart, "I think we both did. Either of those shots would have done it. And I'm not sorry about that, either."

"Nope," agreed Jaime. He tucked his pistol back into his belt at his back. "Well... let's at least move him out of here. We'll bury him tomorrow." As Diego nodded agreement, stowing Pedrona's pistol behind his own belt – he'd get rid of it later – Jaime got up and stepped over to the corpse.

And stopped, then kneeled beside him. "Diego?" He reached out and tugged on a chain he could see running to the man's pocket – and pulled out a familiar pocket watch. He tossed it to Diego, who caught it, his mouth gaping in surprise. It was indeed his grandfather's watch, picked from his pocket just before the aborted execution.

He flipped it open, checked the movement, held it to his ear... and wound it up, giving his friend a dumbfounded look, rapidly turning sour. "I should have known it was him," he commented quietly, putting the watch back in his own pocket where it belonged.

Jaime just snorted.

* * *

They buried Pedrona in a small ravine near the road to the pueblo, digging a shallow grave and covering him, then pulling down a bit of the ravine wall to finish the job. Glancing at each other, they silently agreed no words were needed, nor any grave marker.

Immediately after, Felipe and the company mounted up and began riding back along the army's trail of destruction, part intelligence gathering so they could report it to the General, part seeing what they could do to help, as per their long habit in the mountains. There wasn't much of the latter, but a couple of fires were put out, a couple of graves were dug, some hasty repairs to houses to at least make them minimally sheltering. Simply knowing that word of their troubles would be taken to the rebel leaders did a little to ease the tired fury of those left behind, if not their tears, or reduce the heavy work to come.

Diego and Javier both rode with the partisans, as did several women, to assist their new neighbors where they could. A small distant explosion suddenly brought everyone up short, and Felipe sent a pair of scouts galloping off to find out the source. When they returned, shouting that the army had left behind some scattered mines, bombs buried in shallow pits to explode under an unwary foot, Felipe's face turned black with fury. Diego reflected that he had never once seen anyone quite _that_ angry – not that he didn't feel it himself. The mine they had heard had claimed the life of a farmer – one last victim.

Felipe drew all his people together, to find out what they knew of how to spot a mine, and then scattered them all through the valley to spread that information and warning. He wanted no more deaths or maimings from that company; and had made certain to find out which unit it had been, making a mental note of it for future use. Diego didn't ask his plans.

They were lucky, Diego would reflect later, that there was only one further casualty from the mines. But unfortunately, it hit as close to home as it possibly could have done, as Jaime Mendoza was the one who set down an unwary foot – and lost it. He was incredibly lucky to lose no more than that.

Diego was the first to his friend's side, as Jaime lay unconscious in the roadway, and – swallowing bile – he worked furiously to first assess Jaime's condition, then ripped off Jaime's own belt to tie it around his leg, to prevent more blood loss. By that time, Felipe was there as well as many others, lifting Jaime's head into his arms. He shot a dire look at Diego.

"Just his foot?" Diego nodded. "What do you need to do?"

Diego rocked back on his heels. This was exactly why he had never wanted to work with the army surgeons. Now he had to do his best to save the life – and hopefully the leg – of his closest friend. He wiped his face with a hand, only later realizing it had left a smear of blood.

"Sew up the wound," he managed to tell his brother. "And cauterize it." Felipe's whitening face said he knew exactly what that meant.

They were next to a field, nowhere near any buildings. "Should we move him first?" Felipe asked, but Diego shook his head. He needed to act faster than that. Felipe pointed to three of his men. "Start a fire. Now. There. Get it as hot as you can, as fast as you can."

[===CW===] Maria had brought her sewing kit, just in case, but she couldn't stomach helping. Sofia could, and took charge of the kit, kneeling next to Diego and preparing needle and thread. Felipe remained as well, as did Costa, who knelt by Jaime's other shoulder across from his Capitán. "If he wakes up, we'll have to hold him down," he said gruffly, his eyes over-compensatingly hard. Felipe nodded, and called two others over to assist as well, if needed. Luckily Jaime remained unconscious throughout, to everyone's relief. Nodding his appreciation, Diego worked swiftly to cut off the rest of Jaime's boot and sock, then the ruined flesh, trimming it even, trying to think of a horse's hoof instead of his friend's foot.

By that time the three fighters had a fire going nearby. Diego tossed them his knife and had them hold it as well as their own in the base of the flames, heating the last third of the blades as hot as they could get. Then he wrapped his hand in a rag, took a knife, and held it flat against the wound, gagging against the smell of burning flesh, then trading knives when the first cooled. When no more blood was seeping out, he pulled a flap of skin, which he had purposely left long, over the wound, sewed it shut, and then applied the last heated knife once more to seal it all.

_Then_ he flung himself sideways to the ditch, and retched until his stomach was past empty. Nor was he the only one. [===CW===]

* * *

Felipe and his men knew they were needed back at the General's side, but they stubbornly remained in the neighborhood for several days instead, helping to rebuild, enjoying some time with their families – and waiting for Jaime to recover. Diego used their store of laudanum to keep his friend unconscious, past the worst of the inevitable, terrible pain, just as he had done with Selma's badly-burned hands all those months before. "Luckily, I was right there, and able to operate right away – so pestilence had no chance to get into his wound before it was closed," he told Felipe, with some understandable – if a little horrified – satisfaction. There were no signs of gangrene. Jaime would not lose any more of his leg.

As he sat by Jaime's bed, Diego reflected on the changes he had seen in his friend – and not just the weight he had lost, which was admittedly considerable. Their years as convict soldiers had beaten Jaime down to the ground, as himself. But in the year now since El Halcón had interrupted their execution, and since Jaime had joined the partisans, he walked taller, prouder, more confidently, full of purpose. The clown was gone, Diego thought. Oh, Jaime still laughed often, and loved to joke around, but no one would ever again call him a buffoon, as he had been known in Los Angeles. Jaime had also obviously won the respect and acceptance of the other fighters, even dour Lieutenant Costa; shown by how they all kept dropping by to check on him while he slept.

Finally, nearly four days after the accident, Diego eased off on the laudanum, and stayed by Jaime's bedside as he slowly, groggily, woke up. The scene after was not one he ever wanted to repeat, as he had to tell his friend – who had no memory of the explosion – what had happened, and the results. Jaime bore it as best as he could, realizing immediately that he owed his life and leg to Diego, and tried to thank him, but of course Diego brushed it off along with his own surreptitious tears. Then he presented Jaime with the cane he had been working on as he sat bedside, lovingly carved with a dragon's head on the top.

That evening, Felipe came to check on the patient, standing at the foot of his bed. The Capitán was of course relieved at Jaime's progress and prognosis, but Diego, knowing him as well as he did, also saw the strain Felipe tried to hide, wondering at the reasons.

Jaime broached it first. "I'm sorry, Capitán. I have failed you. Now I can no longer fight. I'm useless."

Felipe flared, angry at their friend's defeatist attitude. "Knock it off! You are _not_ useless! In fact, you are even more use to me now than you were before. There's something I need you to do, that calls _especially_ for you, mi amigo."

"For me?" Jaime was dumbfounded. "With this foot? What could I possibly do now?" He swallowed hard, visibly trying to lose his helpless feeling. "What do you want me to do?" he amended.

Felipe shook his head at that, though, and some anguish seeped through. "I don't _want_ you to do this, amigo. But I _need_ you to." He took a deep breath, and forced it out, straightening his back. "I need you to escort my beloved home, to Los Angeles, to Father, and then stay with her to guard her – and our child, when it comes."

Diego rocketed up out of his chair. "Marianna's _pregnant_?" He had thought she might be, but had not asked. Felipe simply nodded, his misery now plain on his face. "And she agrees to this plan?" Felipe nodded again, pressing his lips together. Obviously, there was some shading to that agreement, but the basic fact was all that he would share with the two of them.

"I'm not refusing, Capitán," Jaime began in a shaky voice, "but that is a very long way, for just the two of us. I do not know if I could properly guard and take care of the Señora."

"I plan to ask Gino, and perhaps one or two others, to go with you," Felipe told him, on slightly firmer ground now. He turned to Diego. "To get them safely there, and then return, with news, and messages."

Understanding hit Diego like a thunderbolt, and he sat down again, hard, as his knees collapsed, covering his face with one hand. At last, he would find out about Victoria. And the results of the pregnancy she had informed him of that fateful morning.

Jaime understood it, too. "You trust me to do this, Capitán?" he asked, his voice half fearful, half disbelieving.

"Yes," Felipe replied, quiet but firmly, all Capitán. "You and no other."

"Then I will guard her with my life, Capitán. She will be safe." He made it a solemn vow.

Felipe just nodded, and turned and left – but not before they caught a glimpse of a tear tracking his cheek.

* * *

The small caravan left just three days later, rushing Jaime's recovery, but with Felipe refusing to leave until they did, everyone knew it was best to get it over with. Jaime, Gino, and Marianna were joined by another family, Miguel and Anita Cordoba, who had just had another baby, so Miguel wanted out of the fighting. They took the smallest of their four wagons, with five horses – two to pull, three to ride. The women and children rode in the wagon with their few belongings, while the men rode alongside and around – and room in the wagon for Jaime when his foot became unbearable. All five adults were well armed and practiced. It was as safe a group as could be managed for the long journey. Diego had also given Jaime a small amount of laudanum, in case he needed it – and Jaime had immediately handed it to Marianna for safekeeping. Becoming addicted was the last thing he wanted.

After a noisy sendoff the night before at the farm, with many hugs and tears for all those departing, Diego stood with Felipe in the tiny plaza of their little pueblo, watching them ride away down the road. Marianna and Felipe were both nearing collapse, neither able to let go or say the word, so Diego nearly manhandled her out of her husband's arms and into the wagon, then sent them off. He stood now with one arm on his brother's shoulders, watching them go. Nor was he unaffected, watching his best friend ride away, not knowing how long it would be before they saw each other again.

Felipe, it seemed, couldn't move away, staring at the spot where the wagon bearing his beloved away had disappeared beyond a stand of trees long after it was empty. Tears were streaming down his face. "I'm never going to see her again, Diego," he choked out. "She's everything. And she's gone."

"What are you talking about?" Diego was gobsmacked. "Of course you'll be together again, as soon as this war is over and we go home."

Felipe shook his head, still staring. "I'm not going to make it. I know it. Something is going to happen to me. I'll never see Los Angeles again."

Diego stared, dumbfounded at this defeatist attitude. "That is the stupidest damn thing I've ever heard in my life," he said flatly, then sighed in exasperation. "And I don't want to hear it, ever again. Of course you'll make it." He shook Felipe with the arm around his shoulders, stifling the urge to throttle him. "So knock it off," he added, using Felipe's favorite phrase against him, and got an involuntary snort in return.

Felipe sniffed hard, trying to gather courage. "She'll be all right. Father will take care of her. So will Jaime. He's half in love with her in his way, you know that? He'll always take of her." Not knowing what to think of that bit, Diego decided to ignore it.

At last Felipe turned a wretched face to his brother. "Diego, tell me what to do."

Diego turned too, placing both hands on Felipe's shoulders. "Tomorrow morning, you and your men are going to mount up and return to the front, where you will win this fucking war for us, and we can all go home. With luck, we'll be there in time for your baby's birth. But today," he went on, "you and I are going to go get drunk."

"I never get drunk," Felipe said. "I don't like it. But right now, that sounds pretty good." And so they did.

Walking into the cantina a moment later, however, Diego suddenly stopped, swearing. "Oh, shit!" He whirled around to stare down the same road.

"_What?_" Felipe was, if possible, even more alarmed.

"You sent Chico along with Marianna."

"Yeah, to guard her. He's more her dog, anyway. Why?"

"Father," Diego replied flatly. "He's afraid of dogs, remember?"

Felipe's alarmed stare turned into a snort, then he simply cracked up, Diego a beat behind. Felipe managed to slip an earnest look on a moment later. "I could ride after and bring him back," he offered, but Diego grabbed his shoulders and turned him roughly back towards the cantina again.

"Nope. He'll just have to deal with it."

"Chico's a good boy. He'll bring him around." Felipe managed to get it out seriously before dissolving into laughter again.

* * *

Several hours later, some time after noon, the two brothers staggered out of the pueblo's cantina after consuming too many bottles of wine and whiskey to count. Felipe might dislike the feeling, Diego reflected, but at least he wasn't a morose or angry drunk. In fact, contrary to expectations, once he let go of his anguish he was downright fun.

Arms around each other's shoulders, the two lurched towards where their horses were tethered, keeping each other upright. Suddenly Diego stopped. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute."

"What?"

Diego turned once more towards his brother, who obligingly turned towards him as well, and put his hands once more on Felipe's shoulders. He grinned at him for a beat. Then he pushed Felipe backwards with both hands – straight into the horse trough behind him, full of water.

Soaked from head to toe, Felipe floundered and spluttered to a sit, astonished and outraged. He wiped the water off his face with one arm, then glared up at Diego. "You said my _head!_" he accused.

Utterly unrepentant, Diego shrugged. "This was easier."

Felipe tried to lever himself up, but then gave up. "Will you give me a hand out, or will you just push me back in again?" Half resigned, half disgusted.

"No, once was enough," was the reply, and Diego suited actions to words. When Felipe was once more on his feet, though, he suddenly groaned, then lurched to the end of the trough, leaned over, and lost whatever remained in his stomach into the dirt.

"Now I know why you don't get drunk," Diego ribbed him. "You can't handle your liquor."

"Nope," Felipe replied. "And I have no intention of learning to. I just don't see the appeal, no matter how much you made me laugh today." Pushing himself slowly back up, he breathed deeply for several seconds before turning to try again to reach the horses. As Diego stepped up next to him, though, Felipe lurched again, and reached one hand out to grab his brother's shirt. He was obviously dizzy. "The world is spinning," he complained, taking tiny, faltering steps, almost dancing around in a circle as he tried to keep his feet.

Finally, he stopped again, still clutching Diego's shirt with one hand. "Diego," he began, slowly turning his head to give him a cross-eyed stare. Then, without any warning at all, he swept Diego's feet out from under him, pushing him back into the same horse trough with the one hand. Then, suddenly straight, he gave a sharp nod, and said one word: "Reciprocal." With a smug smile, he swiveled around on one heel, walked as stiffly as only a drunk man could over to Diablo, climbed unsteadily aboard, and rode off towards the farm.

Leaving Diego sitting in waist-deep dirty water, laughing helplessly.


	43. Chapter 43

**FORTY-THREE**

Several months ground slowly on after Marianna's and Jaime's departure northwest to Los Angeles, as did the war. Far from being the quick, glorious push either general had envisioned the previous winter, it had degenerated into a slow-moving stalemate, both armies tearing up the countryside as they tried to maneuver each other into positions more favorable to themselves. As only minor little engagements and skirmishes occurred, with few casualties, the ordinary soldiers on each side weren't complaining too loudly – although the peasants and farmers for a hundred miles in every direction weren't too pleased, and the countryside slowly emptied out into a wasteland. Food for the soldiers was becoming more and more scarce, and Diego and his companions had to take more time and precautions every time they made the precarious journey with their supplies for the band of guerrilleros-cum-scouts and skirmishers.

Nor was the temper of the Capitán improving. Felipe had managed to keep all of his remaining men alive and unwounded since the families had left the camp of followers, while accomplishing whatever mission General Guerrero handed him – a miracle in itself, which did not go unnoticed among the higher ranks – but Diego, especially, easily noted how Felipe's mood and manner had deteriorated each time they met. He didn't blame him in the least; he knew well how the constant fear and worry about a distant spouse and family colored and even overpowered every other aspect of his daily life, above and beyond the strain of the missions Felipe was doing and the responsibility for his men. Diego had lived with that personal fear for nearly five years, while Felipe was only starting down that path. They could only pray that it would end soon.

At last, in the tiny, day-long window while Diego and the others were resting with the partisans before beginning their return journey, a miracle: a dusty, bedraggled horse and rider found their camp. Diego was methodically inspecting Rojo's tack when he heard Felipe shout his name and looked, then dropped the leather and ran across. It was Gino, returned alone from Los Angeles.

He nearly fainted with relief before he even reached Gino's side, as the man saw them both and, grinning widely, gave the "all is well" signal before swinging down to the ground. Without a word, Gino then reached up behind his neck and fiddled briefly, then pulled off something that gave a slight golden twinkle and handed it to Diego. He recognized it instantly: the precious filigreed golden locket he had given to Victoria that first night in the tunnel.

"Open it, Señor," Gino grinned.

"I know what it is," Diego returned, eyes stinging. Victoria had carefully clipped a tiny lock of his own hair to put inside after their public wedding, and worn it constantly thereafter; the chain long enough to keep it tucked down under her blouse.

"Open it," Gino insisted, and so he did, nearly dropping it when he saw not one, but two rather larger locks of hair glued carefully into either half.

"That one," Gino clarified, pointing to the one with slightly thicker hair, "is the hair of your wife. And that one," this one a definite curl of very wispy black hair, "is the hair of your son."

Diego was absolutely rocked. He barely felt Felipe's hand on his shoulder as he stared open-mouthed at Gino. "My son?" he managed to whisper, his voice hoarse and rough.

"Si. Paulo." Victoria had given the boy her late father's name, and it sounded a deep, joyful chord in Diego's heart. "Four years old," Gino was going on, his smile getting wider and wider, "tall like his father, smart as a whip."

Felipe squeezed his shoulder in congratulations, but couldn't wait. "Marianna?" he asked with an obviously-dry throat.

"She was well when I left. I only stayed a few days, and she was still many months from delivering. I have been a very long time on the road, Señores. But everyone was well, including your father, Don Alejandro, and Jaime – and the Cordobas. I have brought both of you letters, and messages, in case the letters were taken." He turned to Diego again, and began obviously reciting from memory. "Your wife says to tell you, she would not wait for a masked man, but she will wait for her husband, until the stars fall from the sky if need be." Clutching the reclosed locket tightly in one hand, Diego nearly lost control of himself as the relief and wonder and love flooded through his body. He barely heard Gino give Felipe a similar message from Marianna.

Gino gave the two a moment, before sobering. "Not all the news I have is good, Señores. Your father has lost much property, and they are now living above Doña Victoria's cantina and working there. But he says to tell both of you how very proud of you he is, and he gives his solemn vow that he will retain what he still has in trust for you, and he will take complete care of both your wives and families until you return."

Diego and Felipe stared at each other, rocked by conflicting emotions. "How did he lose the rancho?" Diego demanded.

"He still owns the hacienda and some land," Gino hastened to reassure them – although it wasn't much compared to the vast rancho the de la Vegas had formerly commanded. "But I have saved the best news for last." Gino licked his lips, apparently enjoying his knowledge. Straightening again, he looked directly into Diego's eyes. "You are free, Don Diego. Your conviction was overturned, and you were pardoned by the crown. You are innocent – so is Jaime," he added deliberately. "From what I understand, it took Don Alejandro many, many months to accomplish this. And many, many miles – I think he ended up going all the way to Madrid. And of course, many, many pesos."

Felipe's hand had tightened on Diego's shoulder, and he turned to stare at him, amazed. "You can go home," he breathed.

Diego couldn't quite grasp that bit yet. "Are you telling me he _sold_ the land, to pay for my freedom?" he demanded of Gino, distraught.

Gino shrugged. "He would not say directly. That was my impression. But I think he thought it very well worth the price... at first, and in the end."

"What do you mean?" This from Felipe, not quite following.

"The story as I heard it is, that when Don Alejandro finally received the pardons, he took them to the headquarters of the Army of New Spain in Mexico City – but there he hit a brick wall. The clerks and bootlickers there dragged their feet, claiming they had no idea what company you had each been assigned to, or where you were, and they took God's sweet time in attempting to locate you. So much time that... I'm sorry, Señor... before you were located, word came that you had both been executed. For cowardice and mutiny." He paused a moment. "They thought you were dead, your family. Until the moment Jaime walked into the cantina... and told them you lived." Gino's eyes were alight at the memory. "I will _never_ forget the looks on the faces of your father and your wife," he said slowly, with wondering emphasis, "when Jaime said, 'he lives'." He fell silent then, letting that be absorbed.

Felipe was chewing over the mystery. "How could word of the execution have gotten to the army headquarters? The company commanders were killed in the battle when we attacked, the rest scattered to the hills. They sent no dispatches. Or could they have been sent the night before?"

Diego shook his head. "It all happened that morning. Nothing was sent. And why would they think it had been completed – " The answer hit him as he spoke. "Pedrona," he added, disgusted.

"Who?"

"The soldier in the barn." He watched as that oblique reference hit Felipe. "He was our corporal back then – our enemy. He set me up – and forced Jaime to flog me. He's the one who held that gun to Jaime's head. When the company ran when you attacked, he did too. But _he_ went back to the army – and was apparently demoted. But he must have included our execution in his report about that morning – but he hadn't stuck around to see that we survived."

Felipe was working it out. "So he was with that company that came through near our farms, and saw you somehow, and thought to capture the both of you and take you back?"

Diego nodded. "Yes, he was saying something like that." The fingers not holding the precious locket unconsciously sought the reassurance of his grandfather's recovered watch. "That's why we... did what we did. We had no intention of being taken in." He shook his head. "But if I'd had any idea of what he had done. That word of it had gotten back home." The magnitude of Father and Victoria believing him dead for – how long had it been? – hit him hard.

"And what, precisely, could you have done about it – that we didn't do by sending Jaime home just a few days later?" Felipe asked with some aspersion, before adding pointedly, arms crossing, all Capitán for a moment, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

Diego shot him a dire look, then replied evenly, "Not that I can think of."

Gino was chuckling at the two of them. "I will tell you all the details later, Señores, but right now, my horse and I are thirsty. Forgive me." He pulled out two folded papers from an inside pocket, checked to differentiate them, and handed one to each de la Vega. Felipe kept hold of himself enough to ask Gino to join them for supper in an hour, then simply grinned conspiratorially at his brother, turned on his heel, and went off to read his letter from Marianna. Diego found a quiet corner and did the same.

* * *

_My darling:_

_You live. You are alive. My heart keeps singing the same words, over and over. You live! And some day, you will be home again, in my arms, where you belong. I know this with every breath, every heartbeat._

_If you are reading this, the one who gave it to you has told you all the news, so I will not repeat it. Just know that the three of us are here, waiting, and we will be here still, no matter how long it takes. And more than three now, with my new sister. She is already as dear to me as anyone ever was, the sister I never had before. Tell your brother we cherish her, and will keep her and their child safe. _

_And our close friend, as well, of course. He is part of the family, as he has long been. Do not worry. _(It was here that Diego realized Victoria had very carefully written no names, and no facts that could be traced, in case the letter was intercepted. It made his blood boil, ratcheting up his anxiety about the situation in Los Angeles. What was going on there?)

(The ink darkened slightly at this point, and the handwriting changed slightly as well, as if some time had passed, and she were writing now very slowly, choosing her words with utmost care.) _I long to see you, to hold you, to be safe once more in your arms, to walk beside you, to see the light in your eyes as you watch our son grow. But I know that everything you do now is to secure our future – all our futures. No one can know how long it will take, but carve one thing in stone within your heart, my darling: I am here. I will always be here._

_There is so much more to say, but it will wait until I can whisper it into your ear. _

_I give you all of my love, for all of my life, my darling._

And it was signed with a single, large, scrawling letter V. Diego stared at it a moment, thinking it odd: there was a tiny little tail hanging from the front of the letter. Then he turned the page sideways, and a broad albeit tearful grin slowly crept across his face. Looked at from that angle, it was a capital Z with a tiny top line. Victoria had managed to sneakily combine their two symbols.

* * *

Over their simple dinner of beans and tortillas, Gino told the story of their arrival in Los Angeles. He, Jaime, and Marianna had gone into the pueblo (leaving the Cordobas outside it for the time) to find the family, and walked into the cantina to discover them being confronted over something by Ignacio de Soto. When Gino said that name, Diego stiffened, seeing red. "So nothing's changed," he broke in, his voice hard as iron. "He's still alcalde." Gino nodded.

It had been de Soto, his eyes bulging in affronted disgust, who had crowed the news about Jaime and Diego supposedly having been executed. Diego smiled at how Jaime had handled that with his newfound confidence and dignity, giving the man whom he had previously feared short shrift; ending with a simple, growled, "I owe you _nothing!_" before proudly turning his back on the man.

The Alcalde hadn't left them alone, nosily hanging around to find out why his former, now wounded, sergeant had returned, even after Jaime had pulled off his boot to show his half a foot. So the two of them, Jaime and Marianna, had spun a story making Marianna the widow of a distant cousin of Don Alejandro's, assigned to Jaime's unit before he was killed in the war – after Jaime had "promised" to bring the "widow" to the "cousin" should anything happen, as it had done. It was at that point that de Soto finally left, and everyone relaxed. Then the doors were locked, and the truth admitted. Diego wished he had been able to see Father's face when he learned Felipe still lived, and thrived, and fought, and the partisan Capitán he had become. He knew Father would have been as proud as he himself had felt, seeing the impressive man his adopted brother had grown into, all without his own help.

His heart was torn again between pride and anguish as his young son, Paulo, was described – and Victoria's own anguish that he lived, but had not come home with Jaime, and why. Father's promise to take care of all the family, and meet them in Marenga (the town where Diego had first found Felipe as a boy) after the war if it went badly – and his pride in both his sons and relief of the side they were now on – lit a warm, comforting glow in his heart, easing his gnawing pain just the tiniest bit.

He lay awake most of that night, staring up at the stars as they slowly wheeled their nightly dance. He knew what his decision was going to be – was already – and try as he might, much as it tore him apart, he couldn't come up with sufficient argument against it. The following morning, he stiffly rose when the others did, and went to tack up Rojo for the ride back to the farm. Felipe found him there, grinning.

"Getting ready to go home?"

Diego gasped involuntarily, then rested a hand on the saddle he was tightening, staring across it to the far hills so he didn't look Felipe in the face. His own face was tragic, but set. Finally, he shook his head. "No. I'm not going."

Felipe was dumbfounded. "_Why?_"

"Because nothing's changed. He's still there, still in charge, with all the power of the Empire behind him. I am certain that Father tried to have him recalled, when he went to Madrid seeking my pardon. But he wasn't recalled. And as long as he's there, as long as he's the alcalde... he will never let me live in peace. Just as I said that night in the valley. My life is nothing if he's there. And it will be short. He'll make sure to end it, next time he gets a chance." He took a deep breath. "But as long as I'm gone, Victoria and Father... and Paulo... and even your family... have at least a chance of being left alone, of being safe from his fury. But not if I'm there." He shot a sideways look at Felipe. "Until the situation changes... I can't see any other answer. And I can't see any way that _I_ could go back and change it – to remove him from power – except by murder. And I will not do that, any more than I will take up arms in battle again. That's a line that I will not, can not, cross. Ever."

He watched as Felipe absorbed all that, unwilling to admit it, his heart breaking for his older brother... but finally he nodded acceptance.

Diego went on, staring off again. "And two," although he hadn't counted 'one', "I made a promise – an oath – even though I didn't say it aloud, the night I accepted the title of alcalde of our little village. I promised you, and them, that I would take care of _our_ people; that I would protect them, and work for them, and do all the things..." he snorted ruefully, "all the things de Soto never did and never understood. But _I_ do. I _know_ what's involved in being a genuine alcalde, and I did when I took the position. And although I am many things, an oath-breaker is not one of them." He took another deep breath. "So I'm going back to the farm. We'll be harvesting early crops soon."

"But..." He could see out of the corner of his eye that Felipe wanted to protest, to order him to go home, but he couldn't and wouldn't. Every man must choose his own path, as he had said many times. The Capitán was not going to break _his_ solemn practice, either. But he did have one arrow. "But Victoria..."

Diego shook his head, tears stinging. "She understands. She said as much in her letter." He hadn't wanted to read that between the lines, but had no choice. Nor would he dishonor her by deliberately misunderstanding her meaning. He turned to fully face Felipe at last and put a trembling hand on his brother's shoulder.

"So I am counting on you, little brother, more than ever, to win this war for us, so we can _all_ go home," Diego told him, his voice softly intense, straining to keep the tears from his eyes. "Please."


	44. Chapter 44

**FORTY-FOUR**

The second journey delivering supplies after Gino's return was the most fraught and dangerous one yet. The entire countryside was crawling with soldiers in small groups, which the trio had to work extra hard to avoid. Something momentous had occurred, but they couldn't take the chance of revealing themselves to find out what.

Both Sofia and Javier proved their worth that time, all in a few seconds. They were carefully riding in a line beside a tree-lined creek – first Diego, then Sofia, Javier bringing up the rear, each leading a well-laden pack horse – when suddenly they rounded a bend into a handful of rough-looking soldiers, far too interested in both Sofia and the cargo. Diego was talking fast, trying to act unthreatening while working out how to get away – when suddenly a shot sounded from behind. Everyone wheeled around to stare at Javier, pointing his smoking rifle one-handed at a dead man on the ground; he had tried to outflank them through the trees. Javier's pistol was in his other hand, pointed at the group in front of them. And Sofia had pulled out her own rifle in a flash, aiming it squarely at the sergeant in front. Diego himself had also reacted to the shot the same way. He incongruously put on his most gallant and polite air, excusing themselves profusely over his rifle, then spurred Rojo down the path, running right over the last soldier. The drumbeats behind him told him the other two were right on his tail. They stayed at a dangerous clip for two miles.

When they finally pulled up, they merely glanced at each other and laughed. "I do wish we'd found out what's happened," Sofia lamented.

"We will," Diego returned confidently. "Just as soon as we find the company." He made sure to thank Javier for his quick action; the young man merely nodded, but Diego could see he was pleased.

Not an hour later, they were descending another slope when they heard a familiar whistle – Felipe's hawk's scream. Looking left, they saw him waving at them from Diablo's back on another path intersecting their own, just four other men riding close behind him. Both groups turned and angled through the brush until they met in the intervening rocky field. Sofia whooped as they came close – her husband, Antonio, was one of the four; the other three were Costa, Gino, and Bolero. All of them were grinning ear to ear.

"What's going on?" Diego shouted as he got close enough.

"_We won!_" Gino shouted back, jubilant enough to override his Capitán. "_It's over!_"

"_WHAT?!_"

Felipe broke in, grinning but in command. He ordered Antonio to grab the packhorses and return to their camp with Sofia. "Diego, Javier, come with me!" And without waiting for an answer, he wheeled Diablo around on his back legs and took off back downslope at a gallop, Alaric winging frantically to keep his balance on his master's shoulder, the other three riders on his heels. Diego and Javier tossed their leads across to Antonio and spurred after them.

Diego managed to catch up to Felipe at the bottom. "We _won?_" he yelled at the younger man.

"Yes! There was a tremendous battle three days ago – and Guerrero _smashed_ them completely! General Sanchez surrendered that evening!" Sanchez had been the opposing commander. That explained all the small groups of seemingly-unemployed soldiers Diego's trio had been avoiding the last two days – they were all remnants of the Spanish army. But that wasn't all. "And then word came just this morning – a treaty was signed in Madrid two months ago! It's over, officially! Mexico is independent!" Felipe's wild, proud joy was a thing of beauty.

Diego, gaping, rode a hundred yards absorbing this. "Then where are we going?"

"To see the General! To get our discharges! We're going home!" There was more to it than this, Diego deduced from Felipe's grin, but he let it go.

Half an hour later, the group topped out on a ridge overlooking a town, swollen to many times its normal size with the remains of the rebel army, and in particular its top brass. Men, women, children, horses, donkeys, cattle, sheep, wagons and more were swarming everywhere. They pulled up almost involuntarily to look.

"Hah!" Felipe crowed. "Gino! Bolero! Javier!" The three named nudged their horses closer. Felipe pointed to his right to where a huge crowd was gathered, a cacophanous mass of wagons, animals, and men. The General's supply train. Felipe counted off on his fingers. "Wagons. Horses. Uniforms. Ammunition. And most important, food. Got it?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Got it, Capitán!" Gino answered for all of them.

"Meet back here in those trees," Felipe jerked his head back to the thick stand of pines on the crown of the hill, then grinned over his shoulder and gave his old benediction. "Go, my sons. Do good things."

"Vaya con Diós, Capitán!" And off they went.

Felipe led the way through the town to the largest residence – the alcalde's home. He, Costa, and Diego hitched their horses to the crowded rail out front, then pushed into the house. The front room was crowded past capacity with all sorts of men – no women – talking and yelling. Alaric, still on Felipe's shoulder, gave a tremendous screech in protest to the noise, bating furiously. The din vanished instantly at the sudden astounding noise, as everyone turned to stare, and Alaric settled back down with a satisfied _chirruk_, as if that had been his intention. Diego, standing beside Costa behind Felipe's shoulders, couldn't see if his brother was smirking in his beard, but he would have bet money that he was.

Suddenly a gruff shout came from the room beyond. "Is that El Halcón?"

Felipe started forward even as he answered, "Sí, General!" Costa and Diego moving smoothly in his wake. The same voice yelled for them to come on in.

Entering the next room, Diego saw it had been a formal dining room, with an impressive twenty-foot oak table dominating the center underneath a crystal chandelier rivaling anything he'd seen in Spain. Evidently this town was prosperous, and so was its alcalde. The chairs had all been pushed back against the walls, many of them occupied with various clerks and officers, while the table itself was piled high with maps and papers of all kinds.

A huge bear of a man was striding around one end of the table, his new uniform sprinkled liberally with medals. "Put that bird down before it bites me!" he ordered, grinning widely, and Felipe transferred Alaric to the back of an empty chair just before he was swept up in a showy embrace.

"Congratulations, General!" he shouted back, daring to pound the man's back in return. "You have done it!" This, then, must be General Guerrero, thought Diego, staying back near the door with Costa.

"_We_ have done it, you mean," the General returned as he dropped his arms and stepped back. "Very many men, yourself included, had a hand in it. Nor could I have done it without you, specifically, you and your men. I told you to do something, and wham! It was done. With a hundred more like you, I could have ended this war three years ago!" Tipping his head back, Guerrero swept Felipe with a shrewd look. "And now you have come to claim your reward, is that it?"

Felipe grinned. "Sí, General."

"Well, what is it? You of all people can claim almost anything. You want to be a judge? A colonel? A governor?"

Felipe shook his head. "Much simpler than that. I want the garrison at Los Angeles."

"What? Where?"

Grinning again, Felipe stepped over to the table, walking to the middle of the expanse where a huge map of the new country of Mexico was spread out. Guerrero matched him on the far side. Felipe stabbed a finger down near one corner. "There."

Guerrero was even more astounded. "What is up there? Nothing!"

A shrug. "The pueblo of Los Angeles. It's a tiny little place, yes, but it has an army garrison – even though it only has a couple of dozen soldiers. The only army post for a hundred miles or more." He gestured with an open hand across what Diego guessed was southern California. "California _is_ part of the independent country of Mexico now, isn't it?"

"Of course it is! But how do you know this place?"

"It's my home," Felipe told him softly. "And it's where I'm going back to. It's where my wife and child are, and the rest of my family." His face turned sly. "But I'm here to make you an offer, General."

"An offer? What is it?" Guerrero was amused.

Felipe pulled himself up proudly straight. "Make me a regular capitán in your new Army of Mexico. And give me permanent command of that garrison. I promise you, if I ever receive orders sending me anywhere else, I'll resign on the spot." He leaned over again, stabbing the same right forefinger down on the tiny dot that was Los Angeles. "Give me that garrison." Without warning, he slapped his open palm down on the map, his face now a proud challenge. "And I'll hold all of California for you."

Diego quietly gasped, having no idea that was coming. When he glanced quickly at Costa, though, the old man merely nodded. "He's been talking about it for weeks," he whispered.

The General stared a second, then gave a tremendous shout of laughter, and slapped his own hand down on top of Felipe's. "Done!" Picking Felipe's hand up with his left, he shook it ostentatiously. "You're a capitán! Garcia!" he called over to one of the clerks lining the walls. "Write the order! Capitán de la Vega is now the commander of the garrison at Los Angeles!"

"And my men? Some of them will go too."

"Of course! Your garrison is your business now. Send me a roster when you're settled!"

Garcia was nothing if not prepared – apparently many positions had been getting filled with just the same alacrity. Within a minute, the order was written and signed by Guerrero with a huge, showy signature. "Now go get a proper uniform, Capitán!" he laughed as Felipe gave him a snappy salute, then turned, scooped Alaric up from his chair and resettled him on his shoulder, and strode out of the house with his two silent shadows trailing along behind.

Following Garcia's directions, the trio found a supply sergeant ensconced in another house with a large stash of new uniforms and other items. Felipe turned to Costa and raised one eyebrow. "Teniente?" was all he said.

Costa sighed. "Sí, Capitán." And he picked out a lieutenant's uniform that would fit his lanky frame. A few minutes later, the newly-clad officers were inspecting each other, and then Costa snapped his heels together and saluted Felipe, who laughed happily while he returned the courtesy.

But when Felipe turned to Diego, the latter merely raised his own eyebrow in return. "I'm a civilian now. Permanently. I don't salute anyone."

Felipe gave him a wicked grin. "Oh," he drawled, "I _will_ get a salute from you before this is all over. Count on it."


	45. Chapter 45

**FORTY-FIVE**

The trio of scavengers – all of whom, Diego remembered, were good at "finding" things – had done their jobs both swiftly and well, and were already waiting under the trees with two well-laden wagons and a handful of saddled remounts along with the hitched teams. Felipe didn't bother asking details about their acquisition, and neither did anyone else. Returning quickly to where the company was camped, they found that it, too, was all packed and ready to move out. They made it back to the farms in record time – if any of the scattered remains of the Spanish army even saw the well-armed and ferocious company, they wisely steered well clear – and over the course of one single afternoon under the pavilion discussed the recent events and their repercussions, and each family or single person decided on their future course by nightfall.

To no one's surprise, the majority of the community decided to pick up stakes and move to Los Angeles, following their beloved commander; the few remainder opting instead to stay on the farms and join the local community, return to their own former homes, or go back to Valle Perdido. Over three-quarters of Felipe's guerrilleros likewise pledged to join his garrison as regular army soldiers. "What about the lancers already there?" Diego asked his brother, and received a surprising reply: the Capitán intended to freely accept all who wished to stay and serve under him; running, as he called it, a "mixed garrison". It was only the current garrison command that was in trouble, he added with a feral gleam, refusing to elaborate further.

Within a week, the wagons were repacked, their temporary homes swept clean and left well furnished and provisioned for the remaining families, the citizens of the pueblo informed (happy that the farms were not to be deserted entirely once more), and the wagon train once more hit the road. Felipe had made one thing abundantly clear to all: Don Diego de la Vega was still the alcalde of their community until they reached their new home; he himself was merely the military commander of the men joining the army. So it was that the two of them took turns along with Teniente Costa and the newly-appointed Corporal Gino Chavez in riding side-by-side at either the head or the tail of the caravan, swapping places regularly. Early on, the store of crisp new uniforms the scavengers had nicked was broken into and distributed, letting the new soldiers break them in and get used to wearing and taking care of them. The Capitán also took his troops out frequently to practice official maneuvers as remembered and taught by Costa and other former military men (even Diego had one or two suggestions), both on foot and horseback – although they already knew many of them, even if not used often during their years as independent, civilian partisans. Felipe wanted them to look the part when they arrived at their new home. Once he put his own uniform on, he packed his old civilian clothes away until the end of the journey. Diego wasn't certain how he felt about this new direction his younger brother had taken, but realized it wasn't that outrageous a step from partisan capitán. He wondered at the underlying impulse, however – but Felipe didn't share that with him. It was enough that they were going home at last. He would soon be reunited with Victoria, and meet his son Paulo.

* * *

Angling north of west from the farms, they struck the main highway from Mexico City to distant California in a few days and kept to it thereafter, traveling as swiftly as they could through the myriad of towns and small cities along the way. Even with everyone now riding, horse- or wagon-back, it was still a very long way to go.

Given his position as leader of the caravan, Diego was kept busy from morning to night; solving problems, choosing where to stop for breaks or the night and helping to set up or tear down their camp, and especially dealing with outsiders. Given how autonomous the community members were – each adult had self-selected to become a partisan or family member, after all – solutions were usually presented to him alongside their initializing problem, often already being enacted; so most of the truly thorny issues were in dealing with the people of the towns they passed. A couple of times, Diego had to allow a quick search of the caravan for items reported stolen after their passage, to prove they were not the thieves (they never were) – and soothe his own people's ruffled feathers afterwards.

After Doña Marianna's departure northwest, Sofia had naturally assumed the leadership role among the women (since neither Costa nor Gino were married, no military nor civilian leader's wife was now present). Those women followed her lead without (major) complaint, but she didn't quite have the same level of respect they had given the Capitán's wife, nor her deft touch. Nevertheless, the group did travel relatively smoothly, with the minimum of interpersonal conflict; surprising for a community of that size.

Unexpectedly, at least to Diego, they also found themselves in the position of heralds, spreading the word of Mexico's new independence as they traveled northwest. He watched numerous times as the new Capitán calmed nervous alcaldes and other officials, telling them to simply remain in their posts and conduct business as usual until and unless different orders came from the new government and/or army command in Mexico City. And once or twice, they helped quell a celebration that turned into a riot.

* * *

They were now traveling the same road Diego had taken, alone and on horseback, some sixteen years before, on his way back from secondary school in Mexico City to his home in Los Angeles, before he left again to attend the University in Salamanca in Old Spain. The highway came within a mile of the pueblo of Marenga, where Diego had first found Felipe the day after the Spanish army had massacred the inhabitants; the boy had apparently been the sole survivor. Diego was reliving that journey and discovery as they turned aside from the highway and approached the pueblo.

The summer day had been hot and cloudless. He had been warned of the army's maneuvers pursuing some rebels and the shocking conclusion, and had hidden in trees beside the road as they marched south past him that morning. He couldn't have said, then or ever, just why he turned aside to see the battlefield – perhaps no more than morbid, gruesome curiosity.

And it had been horrific. With the army marching off, the people of nearby towns and farms had begun creeping out to see what they could do. Some of them were frankly scavenging, but most were at least respectful of the dead, fearful and horrified of the event. They had begun moving bodies and unsalvageable flotsam to create a large funeral pyre in the center of the very large field where apparently the main massacre had taken place, judging from the piles of debris – Diego didn't want to look too closely – and bomb craters strewn about. He guided his nervous horse around one such pile – it used to be a loaded wagon – and suddenly halted on the other side, when without warning he spied a small boy sitting on a broken crate. The boy – he was perhaps seven or eight – looked up at him with a perfectly blank expression, no fear or anxiety – no visible thoughts or emotion of any kind – simply waiting to see what would happen next.

He had tried to get the boy to give him his name, where he was from, his parents, anything, but the boy remained absolutely mute, not making a sound. Nor, he realized after a minute, could he apparently even hear him. He was deaf, as well. But he seemed willing to go with Diego, letting the eighteen-year-old pick him up and put him onto his horse behind the saddle, then awkwardly climb up in front. Away from the carnage, Diego had asked everyone he met if they knew the boy, but no one recognized him at all. "There were always people coming through the town; perhaps his family was such," one elderly woman commented. "Just traveling through, caught up in the massacre. The army didn't care who they killed." She shrugged bitterly – she had lost family.

Finally, with no other options – he was unwilling to simply abandon the boy he had named Felipe after his favorite saint, and there seemed to be no orphanages or other officials who would take him in – he simply resumed his journey with his small, silent new companion. He purchased another horse for Felipe to ride a few days later, and he seemed to do well enough at that, although without a whole lot of practice, but they went slow enough for him to learn.

When they reached home, he carefully explained the situation to Father, not at all certain what reception to expect. Diego had been gone to school for so long, and as a teenager growing into young manhood, that his own father – his only living relative – was virtually a stranger now. But the older man had listened receptively, looked at the boy Felipe with compassion... and welcomed him with open arms.

* * *

Now they were approaching the place where it had all happened. Diego and Felipe had agreed to make the stop for two reasons: first, because they had sent word with Marianna for the family to meet them there after the war if things became untenable in Los Angeles; and second, simply to see it again. Felipe had never regained any memories of his life before Diego found him nor the people – parents, relatives – in it; although both his hearing and speech had returned in the intervening years, proving Diego's thesis that the boy had somehow done it all to himself so as _not_ to remember the horror.

But as they entered Marenga, neither of them saw anything the least bit familiar. Granted, even Diego hadn't really spent any time in the town itself, but nowhere were even signs of the long-ago bombardment he _knew_ had happened. As the caravan stopped in the town square, mostly empty on this non-market day, the town's alcalde came out to nervously greet the company of soldiers and their baggage train. He was greatly relieved that they were merely passing through, and overjoyed – at least on the surface – to hear confirmation of the word of independence which had by this time spread before them in the magic of rural news. No, no one matching the descriptions of their family members were in town, or had arrived in the last few months. The two de la Vegas heaved a sigh of relief at this news.

And then the alcalde was able to solve the mystery. This, it turned out, was _Nueva _Marenga, the new town built _after_ the old massacre. The old buildings, now deserted and falling down, were a mile to the north – and the meadow which had been the site of the massacre lay in between. There was a plaque in the new church with the date and a description, and the names that were known, if they cared to visit...

They did not. It was only mid-day, and there was no market, and they had plenty of supplies, and wished to move on. So, exchanging final pleasantries with the alcalde and other townspeople who had gathered by that time, Felipe whistled his troops back into motion, Diego by his side, the wagons following.

When they rounded the last building and saw meadow stretched before them, Diego glanced over at Felipe. His brother's face had gone dead white, his eyes round and unblinking, and he sat Diablo nearly mechanically. Alaric suddenly bated and launched himself from Felipe's shoulder to fly ahead, but the Capitán barely noticed. All his attention was on the grassy mound that had grown over the funeral pyre Diego remembered the nearby townspeople building – and the plain, twenty-foot-tall wooden cross erected before it.

The dirt road took a curving route through the meadow, keeping a respectful distance from mound and cross, before making towards the ruined buildings beyond: the old pueblo. As they reached the mid-point, Felipe suddenly halted Diablo and slid nervelessly from his back, his eyes never leaving the cross. Looking that way, Diego saw that the hawk had taken a perch on one of the cross-bars and was silently staring back at his master. Diego shuddered as an icy cat's-paw touched his spine, then dismounted, dropping Rojo's reins to ground-tie him as Diablo was, and followed Felipe a few yards into the grass.

All was still and silent, everywhere around them, even the slight wind had died. The entire company had halted on the road behind them and were quietly, respectfully watching. They all knew what this was, having heard the story in recent days. Even the birds in the trees edging the meadow had stopped singing.

Suddenly Felipe stumbled to his knees, then swayed and dropped still further onto all fours. Diego went swiftly to his side and knelt, reaching a hand to his brother's shoulder. Felipe was blindly gasping and moaning, sobbing aloud as successive waves of shudders ran down his torso. Somehow Diego knew what was happening – the boy's memories were returning in a rush as his mental wall came crashing down in reaction to the surroundings.

"Felipe?" he called softly. No reaction. Then, remembering: "Marco?" The name the young man believed was his own birth name. Finally, that brought the bowed head up. Felipe/Marco stared again at the cross, the hawk, the mound, breathing as heavily as if he'd run all the way from the south. His expression was terrible, full of remembered grief and horror.

Slowly, he gathered himself up and shakily stood, still staring. Diego could only wonder and guess what was in his mind now. Felipe laid a trembling hand atop Diego's still on his shoulder for a moment, acknowledging his presence, then lightly brushed it off to take two more steps towards the cross. Diego watched as he transformed swiftly into the Capitán, coming stiffly to attention, then suddenly called out that command to bring his company to attention as well, still on their horses on the road. To Diego's mixed respect and horror, Felipe began calling out names in mixed Italian and Spanish, yelling them out with a voice that cracked and strained at first, then steadily strengthened, rolling them across the meadow to the mound, where their bones must still lie.

"Benedetto and Corinna di Santos!"  
"Angelo and Marietta di Santos, and their children, Nicoleta," he choked for a moment on that name, "Angelo, and Giacomo... only six months old."  
"Giani and Pauletta di Santos, and their son Gianinni."  
"Stefano and Gloria di Santos, and their children, Lorenzo and Elena... only two years old."  
"Gloria's brothers, Guiseppe and Davide Ricci."  
"Marco di Santos, their father, and his mother, Sara, seventy years old."

Felipe paused for a moment, but there seemed to be no more names. He went on, his voice now cracking in raw fury. "All of them _murdered_ here, and all of them _forgotten_. But _I remember!_ And I will _never again forget them!_"

He stopped again, his chest heaving. Diego's heart was breaking all over again for the boy, reliving the violent deaths of all his family – Diego had involuntarily counted eighteen names.

Suddenly Felipe's face and voice hardened again, and he whipped out his dagger with his right hand. Before Diego could spring to stop him, he'd cut a deep gash across his left palm, and held that hand out before him, blood dripping red from his clenched fist. "And I swear, on my blood, mixed with your ashes, that I will _never again_ allow _anyone_ to repeat this monstrosity! I swear that I will stand, even if I am alone, against _any_ army, _any_ force, _any_ tyrant or thief or murderer, who would harm _my people_, _ever again!_"

Diego was standing absolutely still, shocked down to his toes, as he witnessed this solemn blood oath, this glimpse into his brother's – his informal son's – deepest soul; admiring the fierce resolve even as he recoiled from the need for it: the bloody, awful memories of that long-ago day.

Felipe's hand sank slowly down to his side. Behind him, Diego heard Teniente Costa take a deep breath, then order the company unnecessarily to attention again, and then he led them through a gun salute, first one column, then the other, firing in unison into the air towards the mound as if they had practiced it a hundred times. With a corner of his mind Diego noticed the hawk, Alaric, didn't even flinch, still staring at his master without moving. Felipe had sheathed his dagger again, and brought his right hand up to his forehead in a salute, holding it rock steady, his spine stiff as steel, throughout the tribute. Then he snapped it down again, and bent stiffly to pull a handful of moss from the ground, prying open his slashed fist to press the moss inside as he turned at last back towards Diego and the company. Diego silently pulled out his bandana to wrap it around the hand and the moss, to which Felipe jerkily nodded once; then they walked in silence back to their horses, remounted, and led the way back to the highway.

That night, after they camped, Felipe quietly told Diego and Costa – and the rest, gathered respectfully around and quietly relaying it in a whisper for those farther away – the entire story. Benedetto and Corinna, the first couple he had named, had been his father and mother. His name _had_ been Marco; named for his grandfather. His extended family of fishermen from Italy had been moving all together to some small fishing village on Mexico's west coast, found for them beforehand by a long-absent uncle, Tio Antonio, whom young Marco had never met. The clan had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, passing through Marenga on the wrong morning and innocently caught up in the massacre. Marco had survived by dint of having been hidden in a wagon, but had heard the entire thing, including when the army had finished off all the survivors with pistols, one by one. Last of all had been his tiny six-month-old cousin. The shot had stopped Giacomo's crying – and Marco had stopped his ears, his mouth, and his memories, just as Diego had long suspected.

It was no wonder at all, Diego thought, that the man before him now harbored such deep, abiding hatred towards the Spanish Empire and its abominable army, nor that he had fought so long and so hard – and so skillfully – to defeat it. And the day had gone far to explain his current course, even if Felipe himself hadn't realized it consciously before then. Only as the garrison commander could he truly, effectively protect "his" people – the citizens of his adopted home, the pueblo of Los Angeles – from all their varied enemies.


	46. Chapter 46 - Part Six

**PART SIX – CALIFORNIA SUNSET**

**FORTY-SIX**

At long last, the caravan left the Gulf of California behind, and a week later, passed into Alta California proper. Both Diego and Felipe had been feeling unaccountably pressured to get home as quickly as possible after they left Marenga with its grisly revelations, so they had been moving a bit faster, for a bit longer, every day, using every available minute of the long, late summer sunlight. Diego had been seeing familiar landmarks for the past three days, when late one afternoon, riding at the front of the caravan with Felipe, he suddenly pulled Rojo up short.

"Felipe!" He pointed to the left. "That's the path to the spring where you caught Toronado, the day you left!" He swung his head around to stare wildly at his brother. "We're home!"

Felipe grinned broadly through his newly-trimmed beard. "You're right! What is it, about ten miles from here?"

"Fifteen, but who's counting? Let's go!" Everyone urged their mounts and draft horses a little bit faster as word of their proximity to the end of their long trek filtered back down the line.

Felipe had been thinking, however. "Diego! Remember that patch of pine forest just east of the cutoff to the hacienda? Pull up there, we'll make camp."

Diego shot him a startled, bewildered look. "Why? Let's just go on in!"

That earned him an emphatic head shake. "We've been gone many years, mi hermano, and it's been months since Gino left with what little he knew. We have absolutely no idea the current situation. I am not _about_ to just ride into an unknown with all my men, with no information at all." He shaded his eyes against the sun, judging the time till sunset. "Besides, it will be dark before we get there. Even worse." He waved a conciliatory hand towards Diego. "I know, I _know..._ So do I. We're _so close_. But my gut is telling me to pull up and get the lay of the land first. And I've learned to trust my gut. I'm not even riding up to the hacienda without reconnoitering it first. Remember how Gino described it? We'll need to make camp for the night, anyway, so we'll take those trees." Diego shifted and drew breath to argue, but Felipe rode him down again. "Look... we'll just check out the hacienda quickly first. And if everything is fine there, I'll put on my regular clothes, and you and I will sneak into town to the cantina after dark. I promise. All right?"

Gritting his teeth – he knew Felipe was right to be cautious, after all – Diego ground out "Si, Capitán." Felipe shot him a dark look, but let it go.

A short time later they found the track that led to their old hacienda, and the stand of trees was still there. The two of them led the caravan under the pines, and the people began setting up a secure, defensible camp which they could deconstruct in minutes, just as they had been doing the last few months, needing no detailed directions by now to do so. Felipe tossed Alaric up into a tree to find a perch for the night, and then he and Diego, along with Costa and a couple of others, made their way on foot, using the trees and arroyos for cover, and climbed the low hill that overlooked the homestead. Grimacing, Diego followed Felipe through the underbrush, keeping low, until they found a gap – and then he was glad they had done exactly that.

The hacienda was no longer deserted, as Gino had described finding it when he and Marianna's group had arrived. Instead, it now look like it had been invaded! Horses, still saddled, – at least a dozen – were wandering through the gardens planted right up between the walls and the buildings, eating whatever they liked. Several windows had been smashed out. The front door was hanging off its hinges. And ugly sounds of shouting and raucous laughter were spilling out and across the grounds.

Diego felt a surge of furious outrage shoot through his frame. This was _his_ house, the one he'd grown up in and lived in all his life! Still, he was torn mightily between wanting to evict these squatters and the overwhelming impulse to go and find Victoria, right now! after all these years.

Felipe took a deep breath. "All right. I count thirteen horses. Costa?"

"Same. Probably a few more on the other side. There's a back door?" Felipe nodded. "Then we go in front and back," he added, "catch them between."

"No," the Capitán countermanded. "Send a team from each squad to each door to catch anyone escaping. But the main group goes in through the tunnel and comes out in the front parlor. Catch them completely by surprise."

"Why don't we just leave them and go? The family obviously isn't here," Diego asked.

Felipe stared at him. "_Never_... leave an enemy at your back. You know that. And whoever that is, a large group of horsemen invading our family's hacienda, they are an enemy. We'll take them first." He held up another placatory hand. "My promise still stands, Diego. This won't take long, and you and I will be on our way. But we _will_ do this first." Without giving him time to object any further, Felipe began melting back into the brush to return to the camp.

Twenty minutes later, the de la Vegas were leading a large group of men on foot through the old familiar arroyos to the outlet of Zorro's old tunnel. Felipe had asked those few men who weren't joining the garrison to help out, and they had agreed, so the company was at full strength. Diego wasn't entirely certain what his own role was going to be in this action, beyond helping guide the men in through the tunnel – he vaguely thought he'd just remain below while they cleaned up. Just before the tunnel mouth, the company halted, Felipe silently told off the four who would be guarding the doors, and they quietly scrambled out of the arroyo on each side, following previous directions. A final check that the rest were ready, each clutching a wicked knife and a pistol instead of their rifles – too cumbersome for indoors – and the brothers turned and opened the hidden doorway, leading them inside the darkened tunnel. It was just before the sun finally set, so enough light still streamed through the air holes above to light their way.

Trotting as silently as only they could, Felipe and Diego turned the last corner at a rush – and screeched to a halt before a line of three rifles pointed at their chests. Apparently they had not been quiet enough. Vaguely aware of Costa, directly on his heels, calling a halt to the line of men behind them, Diego looked past the muzzles, to three of the faces he wanted most to see in the world: Jaime Mendoza on one side, Miguel Cordoba on the other, and in the middle, his head held high with a fierce expression, his silver hair glinting in the lanternlight, Father...

"Are you really going to shoot me, Father?" he managed to get out, even as he saw the recognition in the old man's eyes – and then he heard his name gasped out, a rush of satin and silk from his left, and two slender arms were flung around his neck, and his beloved Victoria was in his arms once more.

The next minutes were a blur, as he devoured her with his eyes, touching her hair, her face, her shoulders, making certain over and over it really was her in his arms. "You're here," she whispered tearfully, joyously. "You're here."

"So are you," he returned huskily, and kissed her, his heart full to bursting.

Suddenly she pulled away, to his confusion, smiled tearfully at him, and turned and knelt, holding out one hand behind her to where – when he managed to focus his gaze beyond her face – a small boy was fearfully hanging back, staring at them. "Paulo," she whispered, "come. This is your father. He's come home at last."

Diego knelt as well – not entirely of his own volition, as his knees buckled – and held his own hand (the one not still wrapped around his wife's waist) out a little ways – not too threatening. "Hello Paulo," he managed. "Gino told me about you. Do you remember Gino?"

The boy nodded solemnly. Diego was suddenly aware of figures over his left shoulder – Felipe and Marianna, wrapped around each other, whispering, having their own reunion. He blocked them out again and concentrated.

His son _was_ tall for his age, just as he himself had been, before growing into his adult tower. Paulo had the curly black hair hinted at by the curl in the locket now around his own neck, with wide, startlingly blue eyes like his own in an oval face that resembled Victoria, he thought, more than himself. She was urging him forward again, and he came reluctantly into the protective circle of her beckoning arm – but no closer to this stranger.

Paulo was still staring at Diego. "He's my papa?" Victoria reassured him. "Are you going to make the bad men go away?" he asked Diego directly, trying to be brave.

Diego couldn't help the tears that sprang to his eyes. "Yes, Paulo," he replied gravely. "Your uncle and I are going to do that now."

His hand was still outstretched, wanting so badly to touch the boy, his son, but not wanting to startle him. But then... Paulo made up his own mind and launched himself at his father, wrapping his tiny arms around the strong neck. Victoria, too, came closer and laid her head on his shoulder, tightening her arms around his waist and Paulo. Diego lost control, his face crumpling into tears as he lowered it into his beloved's hair, both his arms wrapped around the most precious beings in the universe.

But it couldn't last. A few seconds – or was it hours – later, a loud crash of glass and wood came from the rooms over their head, and everyone jerked and cringed. Diego, lifting his head to peer ineffectually up at the stone ceiling, was aware of Felipe passing behind him to speak to Father and Jaime. He pushed himself to his feet, keeping his arms around his family to draw them up, too. "And now I must go, and do exactly that," he told Paulo. "Stay with your mother until I get back, all right?" Paulo nodded, and allowed himself to be transferred into Victoria's arms, Diego looked at her lovely face, inches away, and managed to whisper, "I'll be right back." She nodded, gave him a proud, tearful little half smile, and stepped away with their son.

Diego made himself turn away then towards the men – Father, Miguel, and Jaime were sitting on a bench where the little dressing table used to be; Felipe standing before them with one hand on Father's shoulder, getting a report from the on the situation above. More than thirty former soldiers – now outlaws – had ridden into Los Angeles the day before and taken it over, while the wretched Alcalde de Soto and his Lancers cowered behind their garrison walls. Diego could see the cold fury settle over Felipe – the Capitán – like a mist at that bit of information. The family had been in the cantina at the time, but Jaime, seeing them ride in, had slammed and locked the door and shepherded them all out the back. They snuck out here to the hacienda, but some half of the outlaw gang, including their big monster of a leader, had followed them today and taken it over.

"So we came down here with the Cordobas to wait for dark," Father concluded, gesturing to the far corner. Diego hadn't noticed Anita Cordoba and her children standing there until then. "We were going to sneak out the tunnel then and get down to Marenga to wait for you."

"Well, I'm glad we saved you the trip," Felipe quipped with a tight little half-smile. He asked a few more questions that Diego, his head reeling, paid little attention to. "Anything else?" No.

"Then let's go," Diego put in, and started to turn towards the stars, pulling out his own rarely-used pistol from his belt. He heard the company – half of them still in the tunnel and being apprised by passed-on whispers – gather themselves up as well, preparing for the charge.

"No," Felipe said flatly, gazing past his shoulder, startling Diego into new outrage. "You're out. Stay here."

Diego's jaw dropped. "That's my home, too," he began, pointing, but Felipe cut him off.

"You're arguing, _Señor._ Do I need to spell it out?"

The use of the civilian title telegraphed his meaning. This was going to be a bloody assault, exactly the type he'd always promised to keep Diego out of.

Diego seethed for a moment, getting himself back under control. "No," he replied, levelly and _very_ quietly, "but think about this for a moment. Is this really how you want to begin, _Capitán?_" Title for title.

It was Felipe's turn to be outraged. He turned and hissed into Diego's face. "This isn't a small band of outlaws we're facing, that we could corner and arrest in a police action. This is an _army_, trained and lethal, that all together outnumber the men currently under my command. I will counter this the only way I can – as a military commander. Yes, this is how I mean to begin. I don't have any choice." He paused, staring, gauging Diego's reaction. "Now... are you finished?"

Still seething, but knowing when to throw in the towel, Diego stared blankly at the wall in his old Vega personna. "Si, Capitán."

"Then stay here, and guard the family. Once we've all gone above, take them all out the tunnel and back to the camp, and wait for our return. If the worst happens, you're still in command, _Alcalde_." Diego nodded, his eyes still above Felipe's head. The younger man stared a moment longer, then softened his stance a bit. "Hey," he said, even more softly, bringing Diego's eyes down at last. Felipe gave him his trademark half-smile. "Take care of my wife _and son_ for me while I do this, all right?"

Felipe had a son, too. Diego hadn't taken the time to inquire. He couldn't help but give a tiny grin back. "You bet. Hurry back." And he stepped back to one side, out of the way.

Felipe hopped onto the bottom step of the stairs and turned back towards the men still patiently waiting. One fist raised for attention, then he gave a quick series of silent hand signals that were relayed down the tunnel, ones that Diego read unwillingly as "by teams, silence, knives only, no prisoners". The men quietly stuffed their pistols behind their belts, took firmer hold of their knives, and the ready signal came back up the line.

Felipe looked his heart at Marianna – holding, Diego now noticed, a baby to her shoulder – and winked, then turned and ran softly up the stairs, Costa and then the rest in his wake.


	47. Chapter 47

**FORTY-SEVEN**

The family and the Cordobas had managed to put together small bundles – spare clothes, some pesos, and a few valuables – they had intended to carry with them to Marenga. Diego, carrying two such bundles, ushered them all back down the tunnel the moment the last guerrillero was past and the fireplace doorway securely closed again. He could see Father glance questioningly at him, but wasn't going to stop to explain at that moment.

He led them quickly back down the arroyo to the path that, paralleling the dirt road, led to the trees, stopping in the moonlight – it was fully dark by then, with a full moon just rising – to let himself be identified by the guards: Sofia and Ana. When Marianna saw the women, she gasped and ran forward to greet them and show off her baby, dragging Victoria and Paulo – and Anita Cordoba – with her. The women all gathered tightly around and began whispering fiercely; Diego caught enough to know they were telling Marianna about what had happened at Marenga, what her husband had remembered. He told Father to go and listen, too, and find out about his younger son's history; while he turned, picked up Sofia's rifle, and put himself on guard duty. Grinning silently at him, Jaime set down his bundle and joined him on guard with his own rifle, taking a moment to at last exchange the "company" handshake. "It's good to see you, amigo," he said, and Diego replied in kind.

"How's the foot?"

Jaime grimaced. "It itches like crazy sometimes, and sometimes I swear I can still feel the toes – and they hurt."

"Phantom pain," Diego whispered thoughtfully. "I've heard of that with amputations." He glanced at Jaime. "Is it bad?"

Jaime shrugged. "I'll live. And that's the point. There's never been any sign of infection." He grinned again. "Thank you, amigo."

Diego just nodded and turned back to the path, slightly embarrassed.

The women had finished the story, and were meeting each other – including introducing Marianna and the Los Angelinos to Teniente Costa's new bride, picked up on the road north – _that_ was an exciting story! – when Diego saw movement on the road. He hissed "Alarm! Someone's coming!" and heard a scurry of muted movement behind. Glancing behind a moment later, he grinned fiercely: putting Victoria and all the children in the wagons, "his" female troops had lined up with their rifles between him and them, with Marianna proudly taking her place front and center once more.

Father was shocked, however. "Señoras, please!" was as far as he got before Diego hissed him silent.

"Father!" He shook his head. "That's what they are trained to do."

While Don Alejandro was absorbing this, his eyes wide, Sofia – at that end of the line – spoke up, smirking. "Don't worry, Viejo. We'll protect you."

Father turned shocked eyes on Sofia, then burst out in – quietly muted – laughter. "I deserved that," he admitted humbly. "May I stand beside you, Señora?" he asked politely, holding up the rifle he still held.

"Of course!" Sofia replied graciously, then Diego hissed them quiet again – a large group of shadows was now approaching. He _thought_ it was Felipe and the company, but he sent out the arranged signal – a bird call, of course – to be certain. Sure enough, the shadows stopped, and a hawk's _chirruk_ came back. Then the password was given and answered: San Pedro and Telaco, the two villages flanking Valle Perdido, which would _never_ be guessed at by intruders.

The Capitán led the company inside the camp, reporting simply to all, "It's done. No casualties on our side, no survivors on theirs. Now we're going to get our horses and take them all into the pueblo, and take care of the ones still there. Will they all be in the cantina, do you think?" he asked Jaime, who shrugged. He thought probably, but couldn't be sure. "Will you come with us, please, as a guide?" Felipe then asked him, which went straight to Jaime's pride. Of course, he agreed. There were plenty of extra mounts now.

The Capitán took a few minutes for some quiet words with Marianna, and then Father, promising to send someone back to bring all the families into town in time to view the final act, whatever that was going to be. "It will be just before dawn, so get some sleep while you can." It was still a bit before midnight just then. Then he mounted up with all the rest, coaxed a sleepy Alaric back onto his shoulder, and trotted swiftly back towards the hacienda to pick up their dreadful cargoes, tying the corpses behind their saddles.

Accustomed to sleeping rough after all those weeks on the road, the women quickly spread out blankets for themselves and their children, and a few more for the newcomers. Diego helped Victoria settle in with Paulo under a tree, then beckoned to Don Alejandro. "Give me a hand for a moment, please?"

Untying Rojo, he led the gelding through the trees until he located the one he wanted. Then he chivvied the horse into standing right next to the trunk, and asked Father to hold him still. He slipped off his boots and climbed up into the saddle, then carefully stood on it, holding onto the trunk, ignoring Father's mystified stare. Reaching up, he put his right hand into the cavity in the trunk – hidden from most angles from the ground – and gingerly felt his way down the hollow trunk. For a long, heart-stopping moment, he thought it was gone, then his outstretched fingers finally touched cloth. He scrabbled a bit, then managed to get a pinch, then work more of the oiled cloth into his grip – then finally, very carefully, drew out a very long, slender bundle.

Dismounting as carefully as he'd gone up, he slipped his boots back on, tied Rojo back into the line with the draft horses, picked another small bundle out of a wagon, then walked with Don Alejandro back to where Victoria lay, drifting off, curled for warmth next to their soundly-sleeping son. Sitting cross-legged next to her blanket, he finally solved the mystery for them, untying and unwrapping the bundle, until it lay exposed on the oiled cloth: a certain fancy silver sword, forged of pure Toledo steel, held within its steel-and-black-leather sheath, slightly tarnished from its long repose inside the tree.

The sword of Zorro.

"Ah," breathed Don Alejandro. "I wondered what you had done with it." He looked curiously at his son. "What are you planning to do now?"

"I don't really know," Diego replied honestly. He struggled a bit to say something more, then simply shrugged.

"You know, Diego," Don Alejandro went on thoughtfully after a moment. "It occurs to me that you are in the exact same position you were in twelve years ago, when you returned from the University."

"What do you mean, Father?" Glancing sideways, he saw that Victoria's eyes had closed, her breathing soft and even – her exhaustion a measure of how nerve-wracking the past two days had been.

"No one here knows who you are. They didn't then, either – you had been gone so long, to boarding school and to University, that you came back a complete stranger. As you are today. You can make yourself into anything, anyone, that you want to be." He looked across for a moment, then asked a sincere question. "Who are you?"

Diego thought, staring across the little clearing. "I don't really know," he finally admitted, echoing his words a moment before.

Don Alejandro watched as Diego opened the bundle from the wagon: cleaning cloths, small bottles of oil and polish, and a whetstone. Father smiled, said good night, and rolled himself in his own blanket on Victoria's far side, a few feet further on.

_Who am I?_ Diego felt the question echo through his mind as he began methodically polishing the sword's hilt. _Who am I?_

Once upon a time, the answer would have been easy. Don Diego de la Vega, hidalgo and caballero, scion of a proud Californio family. A ranch owner. A scholar, too. And a secret swordsman, he remembered, who had taken a private oath to protect and defend, with the very weapon he now worked over.

But that seemed so very, impossibly long ago. Another lifetime. He wasn't certain he could _ever_ go back – not least of which because the rancho now seemed to be lost. He didn't know if he had the heart to build it back up again as his father and grandfather before him had done – nor the desire, especially if that land now belonged to others, as it probably did. He wasn't afraid of the hard work, but he wasn't sure he had the right to the land any more. He certainly had nothing with which to _buy_ it back. He shrugged, putting that aside; it seemed beyond the realm of the possible at the moment, anyway.

_What else?_ He had been so many things these past few years. A convict, then a convict soldier. A farmer and laborer, a cook and a baker and a brewer, and a builder and small-time craftsman. Even an alcalde, although of only a tiny little community, and a caravan guide, guard, and leader.

He shook his head, unsatisfied with the answers. Those were only temporary roles, temporary occupations. The question _Who am I?_ deserved a much deeper, broader answer.

Was it in his relationships to others? He was a son, an older brother – officially. A husband – although he'd only had a few short months "experience" at being that. A father – none at all, unless one counted what he had been – informally – to Felipe, and he felt he had failed at that. He thought of Jaime, then of many other men and women in his adopted community: he was a friend. That was important.

But still not enough.

Suddenly, he remembered Doctor Valentino, his philosophy professor. El Viejo. Over the course of the one year of introductory philosophy, El Viejo had of course covered (in short, overview fashion, admittedly) the major trends and history of philosophy, but his passion – his specialty – was ethical philosophy. They had covered many different ways of looking at the question, including the Church's Four Cardinal Virtues, and its Seven Virtues and Seven Sins, Marcus Aurelius' list of Roman virtues, and many other such lists and systems. Near the end of the year, El Viejo had given his students an extra assignment, which didn't count against their grade: to write out their own list of personal, deeply-held values. Diego had failed the assignment; his answer had been a glib recitation of Marcus Aurelius' list; and El Viejo had told him it was clear he did not _actually_ believe in them. Not to worry, however: nearly everyone failed that assignment for the same reason, which is why it didn't count. Such a system of values came from experience; no one of college age had attained sufficient such, El Viejo proclaimed.

_I think I'm ready to tackle that assignment now, Doctor Valentino,_ Diego thought. _Thirty-four may not be aged, but it's more experienced than twenty. And I'd be willing to bet I've had more widely-varied experience than most other thirty-four-year-olds._ He had finished the hilt, and now drew the sword slowly out of the scabbard, listening for hitches in the sound, then held it out level before him for inspection as he rotated his wrist. The blade was still pin-straight, softly shining, no nicks in its long, deadly edges, nor (miraculously) any spots of corrosion. The oiled cloth had done its job well, nor had any rain invaded the cavity. There were signs of animal dirt on the cloth, but they hadn't penetrated. He placed the sword reverently across his knees and began polishing, one side of the blade at a time.

He had always felt an affinity for Marcus Aurelius and his writings, so naturally he began there. Besides, fifteen was a much more comprehensive number than four or seven. Those were too broad and too simplistic at the same time.

_Auctoritas,_ he began at the alphabetical beginning, the Latin names coming easily from memory, as well as the translation and explanation – he'd learned the lessons well, if not as deeply as El Viejo had wished. _Spiritual Authority._ One's social standing. Well, once he had held great pride in being a hidalgo, of pure Spanish blood, from the first family in California. That pride was long gone, as he had rubbed elbows with people from all walks of life – not least, Jaime, proud of his mestizo blood. As Father had said, now he could – must – make his own place, his own standing. And that would depend upon his virtues and his actions in all the days to come. He couldn't judge that now. But he knew instinctively that his standing among _all_ his neighbors was important: not just the dons, but everyone. All the people he had once sought to protect as Zorro. He knew they respected the man in the mask. Now he must work to gain their respect for himself, Diego de la Vega – with or without the honorific _Don_.

_Comitas. Humour._ One's manner with others, including courtesy and openness. He stopped his hands a moment to consider. He was unfailingly polite – at least, except when he had been in uniform. That was a long, black hole he was going to have to work around. He shook his head to rid it of the images. Yes, he was polite – courtesy had been drummed into him by his father from his earliest age. And he believed he was open and friendly with all others – unless and until they were unfriendly towards him and those he cared for. Then he could be distinctly unfriendly. Did that count against his _comitas_? No, he decided. It was a just reaction, and in keeping with other principles. Nevertheless, he thought, grinning at the memory of that leering officer at the camp, he was still polite, even when showing someone off. He started polishing again.

_Clementia. Mercy._ El Viejo and the writers he'd read translated this as "gentleness and mildness". The old meek Diego he'd been pretending to be certainly fit. Thinking over his interactions with other members of the community the past two years, he couldn't recall any time he'd been harsh or unforgiving, but always habitually gave everyone the benefit of the doubt – and had never been especially disappointed. And if he took the more literal translation of the word? He had dealt mercy as well as justice with the sword he now held – at least he had sought to do so. He could recall a few instances where that hadn't worked; twice the man he'd fought against had kept fighting until he'd had no choice but to deal the fatal blow, almost accidentally. He cringed away from the one's identity; he wasn't sure he'd _ever_ be able to face having unwillingly killed his unknown, stolen-at-birth twin brother, even if the man he'd grown into _had _been turned by his kidnapper into an avowed enemy of the family. He shook his head again to rid himself of the memories. Still, mercy was a goal he deeply believed in. He made another mental checkmark.

_Dignitas. Dignity._ Self-worth, personal pride. This, he remembered, was an ancient Roman citizen's primary goal, and it was accomplished at the time through highly-visible public works, a series of prestigious positions in the government, and the giving away of huge sums of money. That combined avenue no longer held in modern times. And he rather thought that it was now a personal value, which came from within, not from others – especially the public at large. So how to develop or gauge self-worth? He stopped wiping again, working it slowly out. For himself, he realized, it would have to come from how well he believed he was living up to the rest of this list, and how well he felt he was living up to the roles in his life he'd listed earlier – husband, father, son, friend. File this one away as a long-term goal, to be evaluated much later in life.

_Firmitas. Tenacity._ Sticking to a purpose. Diego smiled grimly. If his long years as a convict soldier, doggedly doing what he was told didn't count, then surely remaining with the community and continuing to keep his oath as alcalde did. Another thought struck him then, and he stopped polishing again. Wouldn't the keeping of one's word, especially in difficult situations, also contribute to _dignitas_? Yes, he decided. And it was vitally important to his own self-image.

The sword was polished as well as it could be. He put down the cloth, and picked up the whetstone, sharpening the blade – both edges, on both sides – in long, smooth strokes from hilt to tip, doing his best to keep the _swish, swish_ to a whisper.

Next virtue. _Frugalitas. Frugalness._ Economy but not miserliness. Well, it's rather difficult to be miserly when you don't have any money at all, he thought ruefully, remembering the extremely rare clink of coins in his pockets these past few years. He filed that one away to be aware of in the future, too. But he did think, remembering the lovely feeling of the communal life in Valle Perdido – and on the farms, and the road – that one couldn't be a miser in such a community. And it had felt _so right_, _so good_, that he didn't think he had a miserly bone in his body – nor an extravagant one, come to that; not unless one counted the bits of jewelry he had given Victoria when he was able. No, he didn't think that could be hung around his neck, either. (Except literally, he thought with an involuntary smile, touching the locket he still wore and glancing at the two donor heads of the curls inside it, sleeping soundly on his right.)

_Gravitas. Gravity._ A sense of the importance of the matter at hand, responsibility. Here was another he felt instinctively that he passed. Hadn't he kept the importance of the well-being and safety of the community in mind as alcalde? Or whatever other task was at hand: he had always attended to whatever he was doing with care, even simple tasks such as making stools and drying frames. But especially, he had respected the importance of keeping the community, the women and children, safe, warm, fed and clothed, and keeping the food production for the guerrilleros safe and running smoothly. He nodded, giving himself another pass.

_Honestas. Respectability._ The image of a respectable member of society. That came from keeping one's word, as well, and from pitching in with whatever was needed: the work one did, money, even ideas, and contributions to the social life of a group. But how could one judge this for himself? Didn't the judgment of respectability have to come from those that _gave_ the respect (or lack of it)? How could the receiver judge his own respectability? He thought a moment, working it out. _The best an individual could do,_ he slowly decided, _is to live up to those things that contribute to respectability, such as keeping one's word, and let his actions speak for him. He can't control his public image, only do his best to shape it._

_Humanitas. Humanity._ Civilization, culture. He thought of _Don Quixote_, of all the books in the library at the hacienda – _oh, crap, were they still there? – _of all the art, literature, science, philosophy, history he loved reading and discussing, all the long conversations on the cantina porch. _Mm-hmm._

_Industria. Industriousness._ Hard work. One look at the blisters and callouses on his hands and feet answered that one. He wasn't afraid of hard work, period, and happily pitched in whenever it was needed.

_Pietas. Dutifulness._ Respecting order socially, politically, and religiously. _Here's an interesting one._ Would fighting against the Empire – even in the small, indirect way he had been doing of supporting other fighters – count against this one? Although... What he had been fighting _against_ had been the very lawlessness of the Empire and its representatives: all the times an individual or group had held themselves above the law. Massacres. Burning and pillaging of innocent civilian property and lives. Even all the times de Soto had run roughshod over an innocent victim's rights, life, or property here in Los Angeles. Wouldn't fighting against that, in whatever form, be considered respect for the social order in it's deepest, truest form? He didn't know.

He snorted. All these exceptions he was making; didn't they only point to how little he was upholding these virtues? But then, another memory hit: all the discussion in class and outside of it that El Viejo had loved to hold and guide his students through, as they had picked apart each idea and looked at it from all possible angles. "A philosophy _must_ be thoroughly examined if it is to be meaningful," he said often. And all those discussion on the cantina porch he had remembered just a minute ago. _No,_ he thought slowly, _this is what he expected, in that assignment I failed, and all other times._ He went on again.

The sword was as sharp as it could be. He put it carefully aside and picked up the sheath, inspecting it carefully. The leather was stiff, but not cracked or rotting, as he might have expected after more than five years in a tree. He'd done a better job than he realized, perhaps, wrapping it up in that oiled cloth. Some light grease worked into the leather, and a dab of polish on the silver fittings, and it would be good as new. He got to work.

_Prudentia. Prudence._ Wisdom and discretion. _How does one judge their own wisdom or discretion?_ Diego wondered. _Isn't that another virtue that can only be judged by others?_ _If so, how would one go about acquiring them?_ He took several minutes working oil carefully into the leather, then shook his head, filing that one away for later, as well.

_Salubritas. Wholesomeness. _Health and cleanliness. He thought of the struggle to keep his body (especially his feet; thank you Jaime) clean during those long years in the army; the delight in bathing in the stream running through Valle Perdido – and the mad scramble to get away from the diseases infesting the rebel camp, and the strictures he had enforced to keep everyone healthy, which had apparently worked, or been unnecessary. He nodded. _Got it._

_Severitas. Sternness._ Self-control. He grinned again. He'd kept himself on tight control all through his time in the army. He'd kept his marital vows in the face of temptation and long separation, when no one would ever be the wiser. _No one but myself,_ he corrected himself. _I would have known._

_Veritas. Truthfulness._ Honesty with self and others. Was he always as honest as he could be? _Did wearing a mask to keep my identity secret count?_ He shrugged, unable to answer. But – again, thinking over the past two years – he did always strive to be honest with the others. He couldn't remember presenting himself as anything other than what he was.

The scabbard was finished as well. Picking both up, he slowly guided the sword back into its home, loving the sweet whisper of steel against leather, then wrapped them up in the protective oiled cloth again and set them carefully against the tree. He stood to make a silent sentry round of the camp, listening to the silence of the night. No one was nearby for miles, he realized, as he traded soft greetings with Miguel Cordoba, who was standing guard. "Come get me up in two hours," he instructed. "You need a bit of sleep, too." Cordoba nodded, grinning.

_Something was missing off this list_, he thought, as he returned and laid down next to his wife and son, wrapping himself in another blanket to not disturb them. _No, two things. Three._ The first was bravery. The ability to face down fear and keep going anyway. Could that be folded into _Severitas_, self-control? Perhaps, although his impulse was to make it a separate virtue. But that would have to be considered another day. He had a sudden mental picture of himself writing all this down and sending it off to El Viejo, and wondered if the old professor would laugh, or appreciate it.

Second, the love and pursuit of justice; one of two things, along with mercy, that he had sworn to uphold as Zorro. It was related to several other virtues on this list, he decided, but fit neatly into none of them. Why was it missing? In many ways, it was the primary virtue he had strived for – at least back then – as important as honor. Diego remembered discussing it with El Viejo, as well, but the old man, maddeningly, merely smiled and said something about each man writing his own list of what was important to him. Well, justice was definitely on Diego's list.

The third missing item was violence, or the threat of it, or the ability to protect oneself and others from it. From what he knew, violence was as common as breathing in the ancient world – and specific nonviolence virtually unheard of outside a monastery. Was that why Marcus Aurelius and other Roman philosophers didn't include martial ability as a virtue? Was it a virtue now? Or was the absence of it one? How did the taking of life, or the wounding of another human being – whether individually, or in the chaotic mass of an army battle – willing or not, prepared or not, forethought or not – how did that fit into a modern moral framework? Could he say he was a moral man, given his past, all the unknowable, uncountable men he had killed or wounded in battle? Could Felipe claim to be, with the numbers he _did_ claim to know? He could almost hear the silver sword singing to him from within its oiled nest, and had no answer.


	48. Chapter 48

**FORTY-EIGHT**

"Victoria. Cariña, wake up." Diego placed a hand softly on his wife's shoulder – oh, how he had longed just to touch her like this! – and gently shook it. She opened her eyes with a deep breath, turned to look at him – and the light that flooded into her face warmed his heart like the sun.

"I was afraid that was a dream," she murmured as she reached a hand to caress his cheek.

"No dream," he replied, capturing her hand with his own. "I just hope that it doesn't become a nightmare."

"Why would it? Diego?" She sat up swiftly, turning to face him, concern suddenly etched deeply.

He took his own deep breath. "I've been gone for so long... I've changed... I don't know how much."

"So have I. Motherhood... missing you... I'm not the same."

"That's what I mean. I hope we haven't changed too much."

A soft smile claimed her lips as she studied his beloved face. "Do you remember the night we became _officially_ engaged?"

"I'm not likely to forget it," was his trademark wry response.

"I said there were _many_ things about me that you did not know. And you told me that you looked forward to learning them, one by one, over all the years to come." She paused. "Are you telling me now that I cannot do the same? Or that you do not now wish to?"

"Of course not!" he replied to the last question first. "And I would never dare try to tell you there was anything you could not do."

"Good! You've learned that, at least."

"I learned it a long time ago."

"Then we will both learn about each other, even if it takes a lifetime. Hm?" she prompted, and he nodded, smiling. "Then shut up and kiss me, mi esposo."

* * *

Jaime and two other soldiers had been sent by the Capitán back to the woods to bring everyone in, as he had promised. Shortly before dawn, the caravan's four wagons drew up behind the cantina as quietly as they could, and women and children piled sleepily out. As Diego entered the cantina through the back door carrying a sound-asleep Paulo, however, he stopped short, not recognizing the man who stood up from one of the tables: a well-built man in his forties, wearing a soldier's uniform but with insignia cut off, his left arm in a bloody sling.

Jaime rushed in. "Diego, wait. It's all right. This is Teniente Vargas from the garrison. De Soto did for him as he did for me all those years ago. We met him this night on the road; he was going for help."

"And I found it," Vargas put in with a tiny ironic smile. He stepped forward and put out a hand. "You are Don Diego, then? I am pleased to meet you at last."

"So you've joined our side?" Diego asked as he shook Vargas' hand. The other man just nodded confirmation.

Marianna brushed passed them, carrying her baby. "Where is Felipe?" she asked quietly.

"Lying on the cot in the office," Vargas told her, pointing to the front corner by the bar. She nodded and went that way, passing Alaric asleep on the counter next to Felipe's tall uniform hat. Vargas watched her enter the office and close the door behind her, puzzled – then his face cleared. "So she is _not_ a widow," he said to Jaime – a statement, not a question – and the other man grinned and nodded.

"She is actually Doña de la Vega, the Capitán's wife." Vargas nodded understanding.

Victoria heaved a deep sigh as she looked around the remains of her beloved cantina, hands on her hips. Many of the tables and benches had been broken; all had been shoved wildly around; food and drink and dirt – and worse – had been spilled or thrown all over and ground into the floor. "Well, I've cleaned up worse messes," she muttered, trying to lift her own spirits.

"This is _your_ cantina?" Sofia asked. When Victoria nodded, she went on officiously, "We'll help you clean it up." Victoria was bewildered at this, but before she could ask, Sofia supplied the answer. "If the rest of the outlaws were here, then I suspect our husbands had something to do with creating _this_ mess as they cleaned _that_ one up." With a short laugh, Victoria threw up her hands and accepted.

"I'm going to make some coffee – if I can," she amended, and turned towards the kitchen. Diego followed her a minute later, after laying Paulo down with the other children on a hastily-spread pile of blankets in one corner of the big room.

Victoria was surveying the damage there, too, her hands over her mouth in dismay – it was even worse than the public room. Food was thrown everywhere, bags and boxes ripped into and contents spilled, all the pots and pans used and left filled with dried food, dishes and silverware piled everywhere in the same condition, and of course the fire in the oven was completely cold. "Leave it," Diego told her. "We can do without coffee." When she didn't reply immediately other than another heartfelt sigh, he went and put his arms around his wife, turning her gently into his chest. She laid her head on his shoulder, clinging to his waist, and they stood like that for several minutes, remembering so many other times they had stood in that same pose.

"Señora?" came a new voice, along with a gentle hand on Victoria's arm. It was Trinidad, Teniente Costa's new wife. "Go and sit with your husband, Señora. We will clean this up. And I will make the coffee." Already turning away, Trinidad called to several women behind her in the kitchen doorway, handing out assignments, beginning with cleaning and rebuilding the fire in the oven. Then she passed back through and swiftly put Sofia and two others on the pile of broken liquor bottles behind the bar, several more to continue straightening the tables and benches, and sweep and mop the main room, and finally sent the last pair upstairs to survey the damage done to the private rooms, leaving Maria – mother of the youngest baby present – to watch the sleeping children in the corner.

As she turned back towards the kitchen, she caught Diego's surprised stare and blushed. Shy and retiring, Trinidad had barely said a word to anyone since Costa had found and suddenly married her on the road, merely following Sofia's lead like everyone else. Now she raised her head again and gave Diego a tiny smile. "It's what I'm used to," she shrugged. "I grew up on a _huge_ encomienda, with _dozens_ of people to feed – and clean up after." Without giving him or Victoria a chance to respond, she turned back to the kitchen. Apparently the more familiar milieu had given her the impetus to take on the authority she possessed as the Teniente's wife, as well – Diego was only surprised that all the others had fallen in without protest. Letting it go, he merely chuckled and pulled Victoria with him over to the front table, joining Don Alejandro, Miguel Cordoba, Teniente Vargas, and Jaime Mendoza already there.

"Where is everyone?" Diego asked the group at large, and Jaime answered.

"All our men are back in the cantina warehouse, snatching a bit of sleep and waiting for dawn, including the two who came with me – I sent them there. We laid out all the outlaws in the plaza for the Alcalde and the Lancers." At first, that's all he would say, although both he and Vargas – and Gino, watching carefully out the front window – were snickering. Finally, they confessed, describing an eerie scene in which the Capitán, his face whitened with ashes, had stalked silently out into the plaza, silenced the two Lancers on guard duty on the garrison wall, then beckoned the men – their own faces darkened with coal so they looked like shadows – out two by two to lay the corpses in a line, before all the "ghosts" disappeared back into the cantina, never having made a sound. Each of the newcomers took a turn peeking through the window, letting no telltale light escape, to view the crazy moonlit scene. There was no sign of guards on the wall now; apparently they had been scared to the far side of the garrison to await the comforting sunlight. "That's a trick worthy of Zorro," Victoria murmured in Diego's ear, and he grinned.

"My little brother is _very_ tricky," he commented. "I'm proud of him."

Gathered once more around the table, Diego brought up his burning question. "Father," he began quietly, looking across the table at him, "what happened to the rancho? Did you sell it, for my freedom?" His voice echoed his pain and bewilderment.

But Don Alejandro shook his head. "No, it wasn't like that. Well, not directly. Yes, I sold some of it – land and cattle – to Don Pedro," he named the owner of the rancho just north of their own, "to finance my travels. Gino told you that I went to Madrid? And Mexico City, before and after?" Diego nodded. "Well... travel is expensive. Yes, I paid a few little bribes, but most of it went to travel expenses." He paused. "The rest... well..." A dismissive shrug.

"What? Was it seized, by de Soto?" Diego guessed shrewdly – and with some heat.

"No," Don Alejandro replied quickly. "He did _not_ get anything. But not for want of trying. We had a drought, which began the year after you left and lasted two years. It was very tough times for everyone – but of course de Soto did not lessen anyone's taxes. And because I had sold some of the rancho, we were not in a good position to weather it as we might have done. So I found another way."

He would have left it there, but Victoria jumped in from Diego's elbow. "Your father was very clever. He divided up the rancho – most of it – into little plots, just a few acres each, and _gave_ them to his rancheros, and many other farmers who had lost their land already. De Soto tried to pin the taxes on them, but he couldn't – and he couldn't get his hands on any of it, either."

"And I was able to scrape together the back taxes, which left us clear." Don Alejandro finished with a feral grin. "He got nothing for his trouble." Another shrug. "I still own the hacienda, and some acres around it – the Cordobas are farming it for us," he added with a gracious tip of his head towards Miguel.

"Farming?" Diego asked, and again, Victoria answered.

"Growing the food we then cook and sell here in the cantina. It's greatly reduced our expenses. All we have to buy now is meat and liquor."

"You still make the beer?" Diego inquired, and she nodded.

"The fields away from the hacienda have barley, wheat, corn."

"I'd still like to get a bit of land back some day and raise our own beef again," Don Alejandro said thoughtfully, then snorted. "I've gone from raising cattle my whole life, to buying beef." He shook his head, a picture of his reduced status.

Victoria changed the subject slightly. "We've thought of building a still and producing our own whiskey, but no one around here knows how, and can advise us."

Diego turned a wry smile on his wife, then leaned past her towards the bar. "Somehow, I don't think that's going to be a problem now, is it, Teresa, Selma?" he asked of the women working there with Sofia.

Teresa looked ostentatiously around while fiddling with her hair, then "caught" Diego's eyes and smiled, while Selma just laughed. Victoria turned that way. "You know how to distill spirits?" she asked excitedly.

The two ladies simply nodded. Sofia, the realist, then put in, "Buying or making the equipment and setting it all up is going to take money."

Diego shot her a level look. "Do you have any doubt that we'll manage it, Sofia?"

Sofia remembered all the little miracles that had been wrought the past several years, snorted, smiled appreciatively, and shook her head, then went back to sweeping.

Just then, the door to the office opened, and Marianna walked out with her baby on her shoulder, followed by Felipe, putting on his uniform jacket. As he passed the corner of the bar, he reached out and woke Alaric, coaxed him onto his fist, then transferred him to his habitual left shoulder. Gino informed the Capitán that two men, dressed rough, had ridden in a short time before, taken one look at the line of corpses, and left in a hurry. Felipe grinned.

Then he turned to the others, all standing now around the table, and began issuing orders. "Vargas, Jaime, I need you to stay here. Sneak out the back door and around as close to the garrison gate as you can. When de Soto calls out the Lancers, Vargas, I need you to get in front of them and _retake command_. Do whatever you need to in order to do that, but most important of all, _keep them from opening fire._ The _last_ thing I want is to have an open gun battle in the plaza with civilians around – especially against men I hope to be leading in an hour."

Diego noted that several faces showed surprise at that last – Felipe had not told _everyone_ of his intention to absorb the Lancers into his new troops. Vargas, however, was nodding – he knew. Diego suspected that was half of how Felipe had turned the man to his own goals so quickly. "Not a problem, Capitán. My men fear and loathe the Alcalde as much as the citizens do."

Felipe shot him a look, absorbing both halves of that statement, then nodded. "Anything else I need to know?"

Jaime cleared his throat. "Si, Capitán." He turned to Vargas. "You've been here four years, right?" Vargas nodded. "In all that time, have you _ever_ seen de Soto unsheath his sword – even in the practice ring?"

Vargas shook his head. "I've never even _seen_ him in the practice ring, not even once."

"Then he's rusty," Felipe summed up with a small, slightly evil smile.

"And more," Jaime added, "he's loco. He's lost it. He's a rabid dog, Capitán – likely to do _anything._" He didn't bother to add 'be careful', but it hung in the air.

Felipe nodded again, then grinned. "Then go, my sons. And do good things." His habitual dismissal caught Vargas by surprise, especially the wink Felipe added, but Jaime grinned.

"Vaya con Dios, Capitán." He shook hands with Felipe, Vargas recovering and copying him a moment later, and the two moved towards the back door.

Felipe then asked all the others present to stay hidden inside the cantina until the company had ridden in, so as not to distract those outside. Then he collected Gino with a nod, and made to follow Jaime and Vargas, but Diego stopped him. "A moment, please, Capitán. I have something for you." His use of Felipe's title caught the younger man's attention, and he stopped again, as did Jaime and Vargas to watch from next to the bar.

Diego reached behind him for the bundle no one had noticed, and quickly unwrapped it. Victoria and Don Alejandro both gasped. Dropping the cloth to the floor, Diego turned and held the contents out reverently towards Felipe, two-handed.

Upon seeing what he held, Felipe had taken a quick step backwards, staring stunned into Diego's face. "Zorro's sword?" he breathed, bewildered.

"I'll never wear it again," Diego admitted aloud for the first time. "But it deserves better than to be hung on some wall – or left to rust in a hollow tree. It should be worn by a man who knows how to use it, and _will_ use it, in the pursuit of justice and mercy, just as Zorro did."

"_Justice?_" Felipe threw it back, disbelief now paramount. "You know what I'm planning to do out there."

"Yes," said Diego with a nod. "What I can't. Because for me, it would be simple vengeance. Retribution. And that's a line I will not cross. Ever." He paused, letting that quiet declaration sink in, then took a deep breath. "But the duly-appointed commander of the garrison – the highest-ranking individual for a hundred miles – he _is_ justice for this community. It is my hope that this sword will remind you where that line is." He shook his head. "And I will never judge that. And I'm not now – except to say... that I think there _is_ some justice in his facing this sword one more time." Through all that speech, his hands had never wavered; they still held the silver sword out, hilt first, towards Felipe.

As Felipe continued to stare, a commotion began outside: the church's bell began tolling across the plaza. Everyone jumped and turned to glance towards the door. "Father Patricio has seen the bodies, and thinks everyone else in the pueblo should come see for themselves," Marianna commented, as she and the others turned back to watch Felipe.

"Then it's time for you to go," Diego said quietly. He still held out the sword.

Finally Felipe took a deep breath and nodded. Looking down, he unbuckled his belt and slipped off his old sword, and turned slightly to put it on a table. Then he saw eleven-year-old Juan Diego, standing with his mother an arm's length away, staring at him with wide eyes. Felipe paused, then a half-smile stretched one side of his mouth, and he held his old sword out to the boy. Juan Diego gasped, his eyes, if possible, going even rounder, and he took the sword as if it were a holy relic, placing the point carefully on the floor and holding it like a cross before him. It nearly reached his chest. Felipe added a wink to the boy before he sobered and turned back, at last taking the step to Diego and holding out both _his_ hands.

Diego nodded solemnly and laid the sword across Felipe's palms, then stepped back. Not a sound was made in the cantina; every human was silently watching the symbolic transfer, whether they grasped the significance of the sword or not. Felipe swiftly laced his belt through the scabbard and rebuckled it, then grasped the hilt and dramatically drew out the sword. Lamplight played along the blade as he gave it an experimental arabesque, feeling the weight and the perfect balance.

"I polished and sharpened it overnight," Diego told him. Felipe held it out straight to the side for a moment at arm's length, as if checking for nicks or bends – and then slowly brought it back to hold it vertically before his face in the old swordsman's salute as he nodded wordlessly to Diego. The moment was too much for words.

Diego nodded back, smiling slightly, then brought his right hand up to his temple in a proper military salute.

As he lowered the sword, Felipe suddenly grinned. "Told you I'd get a salute from you," he said snarkily, then glanced down to resheath the sword.

Diego gave a disgusted huff, then said maliciously, "Don't forget your hat, Capitán."

"Oooo," Felipe groaned as if wounded. "What was that about vengeance?" he asked Diego sourly.

"What's wrong with the hat?" Don Alejandro wanted to know. He picked it up off the bar and looked at it.

"I _hate_ hats, and that one's _stupid!_" Felipe informed him, rank disgust and distaste for the thing dripping from every word. Then he straightened up, staring into space with a airy, "I can't take it. My hands are full." They weren't, merely clutching his belt. Several people snickered.

Jaime reached over and took the hat from Don Alejandro, brushing off a bit of imaginary dust from the top. It was one of those tall, round, stiff felt columns, the new Mexican eagle in bronze prominently displayed on the black leather band. "It's a very handsome hat," he offered seriously, "very official." He held it out towards the Capitán. "You should at least wear it on your way into town the first time. Look the part," he added with a nod, trying not to smile.

Diego reached out and lifted Felipe's near elbow, and Jaime slipped the hat underneath it. With a final glare at them both, Felipe turned towards the back door. "If I don't drop it into a river first!" he promised with a snarl.

"There aren't any rivers in town!" Don Alejandro reminded him.

"I'll _find_ one!" And with that solemn promise, Felipe disappeared out the door, a laughing Gino on his heels.


	49. Chapter 49

**FORTY-NINE**

"They're coming in!" This from Miguel Cordoba, watching out the front window, and the adults in the cantina – the children were all still soundly asleep in the early dawn, Juan Diego clutching his new sword proudly – filed silently out onto the porch. "Their" soldiers, each of the former partisans (and the few who were planning to become civilians filling out the ends) were just coming to a show-stopping halt in a long line paralleling and facing the line of bodies they had laid out hours before. Capitán Felipe de la Vega, mounted on the ever-magnificent Diablo, was in the center, a pace in front of the line, Teniente Costa just on his far side. He let the stallion rear and paw the air once more as the two men on either end of the line turned their horses briefly to dump four more bodies on the pile. Diego wondered briefly where they had come from, but dismissed the thought for another.

"Was I that dashing on that horse?" Diego leaned over to whisper in Victoria's ear. She was standing in his arms in front of him on the porch.

Tilting her head back, she answered simply, "No." But before he could react, she smiled and added, "You were even more dashing." He smiled back and kissed her quickly.

Across the line of corpses, the gaunt, wretched figure of Alcalde Ignacio de Soto was screaming at his Lancers to form up and fire at the "invaders". The garrison's soldiers were still scrambling out through the gate, some half-dressed, as they tried manfully to obey their commander's orders. All at once, another figure ran in from one side, planted himself between the Lancers and the Alcalde, and began countermanding the latter's orders: Teniente Vargas. Felipe's well-trained troops were all sitting their horses like statues, their rifles held at the ready but not aimed ahead.

The Lancers were visibly torn, looking back and forth between the two commanders in confusion, when suddenly someone shouted out "Si, Teniente!" – and the corporal (Rojas, Diego remembered from before) suddenly straightened, echoed the shout, and ground his rifle, causing a ripple through the company of mirror actions until they were all standing at attention, eyes on Vargas. (A beat later, Diego registered that the initial shout had sounded suspiciously like Jaime's voice.)

Realizing he'd lost control of the Lancers, de Soto gave a last disgusted glare at Vargas' back, then whirled back around to face the invaders. "What the _hell_ is going on here?" he demanded. Diego, his eyes snapping back to his former enemy, took in the latter's state: wild, disheveled hair; uniform stained and hastily donned, jacket half unbuttoned; hands and feet in constant, twitching motion. Even from this short distance, Diego could see the man's eyes were those of the rabid dog Jaime had named him earlier.

Felipe shouted back, "What you should have done, were you anything other than a sniveling, power-hungry coward!" _Not going for conciliatory, then, are you?_ Diego thought with a mental smirk, even as he caught the Capitán's hand-signal to his men to put their weapons away, now that the Lancers' guns were grounded. He glanced around at the crowd of civilians still quietly but rapidly growing on the edges of the plaza. The faces he could see clearly were gaunt, angry – and the anger was directed at de Soto. Vargas had been correct. Felipe would have no trouble from that quarter to his takeover.

He glanced back to see de Soto gather himself up to bluster, "How _dare_ you? I am the Alcalde – "

"_Not anymore!"_ Felipe rode over him, reaching up to rip off his hat and throw it onto the pile of bodies.

"And, there goes the hat!" Marianna murmured, causing several snorts and snickers on the porch.

Felipe divested himself of his hawk, as well, who flapped over to perch on the church roof as his master went on. "You lost that position from your own inaction! An alcalde protects his people and his town from all who would threaten, he doesn't sit still and hand them over to outlaws! You're not an alcalde, you're a tyrant and a bully – _and_ a coward!" _Well said,_ thought Diego.

De Soto wasn't having any of being scolded by a stranger. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Felipe nearly smirked, and pulled Diablo around in a rearing turn to face the civilians. First, he shouted that the Alcalde had been lying to them about the war, and announced its end, with a free and independent Mexico. The crowd let loose with a roar at the news, in joyous relief. Felipe had to use his piercing whistle to quiet them down again. "Amigos! You know me! Although you're not used to hearing my voice!" he grinned. "I am Don Felipe Marco de la Vega, adopted son of Don Alejandro!" Diego saw many faces turn towards Father on the porch – and quite a few recognized himself, as well. Felipe then pulled out the paper he'd been carefully carrying in his pocket ever since receiving it from the General, held it over his head, and made it official. "I am a capitán in the Mexican National Army. And by order of his excellency, General Guerrero, Commander of the Army, I hereby take command of this garrison!"

Like everyone else in the plaza, Diego's eyes were on his brother as the crowd cheered once more. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw de Soto spring forward across the corpse line, snarling, his sword suddenly in one hand. Costa must have shouted a warning, because Felipe instantly reined Diablo around again, the horse's hooves knocking de Soto to the ground as he spun. Felipe somersaulted athletically backwards over Diablo's rump and landed on his feet, slapping the horse away just in time to meet the Alcalde's next rush. Stepping lightly to one side, he grabbed de Soto's sword arm and yanked hard as he twisted around, throwing the man roughly to the ground again several feet away.

De Soto rolled swiftly over and pushed himself up, preparing to spring back to his feet – and then registered the point of a sword inches from his face and froze. By that time the crowd – who had erupted in gasps and screams at his initial charge – were again as quiet as a church congregation.

At the other end of the silver sword, Felipe grinned maliciously at de Soto's reaction. "Recognize the sword?" he hissed. They were close enough to the cantina porch for Diego and the others there to hear every word the two exchanged past the silent onlookers. "Up!" Felipe spat the word at his opponent, who slowly rose to his feet, the sword point following his nose, his own sword still clutched in his right hand.

Breathing heavily, Felipe stared for a moment, then said with the air of pronouncing judgment, "You have two choices. Drop your sword and you can slither out of Alta California with your life, I don't give a fuck. Keep fighting... and you're dead."

De Soto sneered. "You're a de la Vega. You'll do nothing."

Felipe let out the lowest, most evil laugh Diego had ever heard the man use. "You forgot," he informed de Soto silkily, "I'm adopted." Then his voice went hard. "I'm the son of Italian fishermen, _murdered_ by the Spanish army. And for the last six years, I've been a guerrillero with the rebel army. _Fighting_ and _killing_ officers like you. And _you..._" He shook his head, lips curling in disgust. "...are just one more Spanish cockroach, waiting to be crushed." Even though he knew his brother's history now, and knew where it was all coming from, this distillation of the hatred and fury he knew Felipe held in his breast still shocked Diego a bit. He sent a silent prayer, to God, to the sword, he couldn't have said which. _Pull him back. Don't let him cross that line._

Felipe was continuing, almost ruminating. "After everything you've done, to my family, to these people, to this pueblo... You tried to destroy all of it. But look around, de Soto. We're still here!"

De Soto snarled triumphantly, "Your so-called brother isn't!"

That made Felipe give his evil laugh again. "Look again! He's standing on the cantina porch!"

Diego saw de Soto's eyes snap to the left and unerringly find his own. His old enemy's face blanched again, dead white, and his fingers tightened on his sword hilt. But when he inhaled sharply, jerking like he was about to come after Diego, Felipe hissed loudly at him, swishing the sword point near his eyes to bring his eyes and attention back.

"You're not dealing with _him_ now. You're dealing with _me._ And I am _not_ Zorro. I am El Halcón. And I do _not... take... prisoners._"

De Soto wasn't completely gone. Diego saw the meaning of that phrase penetrate, and just the tiniest bit of fear entered the man's eyes. Felipe didn't give him time to react, however. He flexed his arm and wrist, bringing the sword point back a few inches – enough to for de Soto to move, if he decided to. "Now go... or die. Choose!"

He chose to fight, as everyone expected. Bringing his sword up swiftly, he brought it against Felipe's, intending to sweep it away, although that was harder than he had expected. Nevertheless, de Soto continued to attack the Capitán furiously, raining down a series of rapid – and to Diego's eyes, wild – blows, driving him back several yards across the plaza as he grinned in the anticipation of triumph.

Diego heard Don Alejandro breath in sharply, and knew his father wasn't seeing what he was. "It's all right, Father," he said in a low voice. "He's better than I was."

"He's driving him back," Father returned, fear in his voice.

"He's taking his measure. And he knows what I know – de Soto is nothing. He has him," he added reassuringly – and even as he spoke, Felipe began his counterattack, driving de Soto back across the plaza as quickly as they had gone the other way. Diego knew he shouldn't be feeling triumphant, but couldn't help it.

Suddenly de Soto gave a loud grunting scream – Felipe's sword had sliced deep into his upper arm. As the bright red blood began streaming down his jacket sleeve, Felipe shouted, "For everyone you have ruined these ten years!" De Soto tried to counterattack, but Felipe held his ground now, and a few clangs later his sword bit again, into the former alcalde's side. "For everyone you have _killed!_" He went on and on, wounding de Soto in a different place every few seconds, and each time he called out a score. "For every bit of land you stole!" "For every peso that went into _your_ pocket!" "For every orphan crying in the night because his father will never come home!" "For every widow forced to sell herself to feed her children!" The crowd was with him now, growling assent to every charge.

Then he paused, panting, his face full of righteous anger. De Soto, wrenching up his last bits of strength and anger by sheer willpower, managed to bring his sword up once more as if to attack again, but Felipe suddenly whipped around in the same spinning kick he'd shown Diego all those months before, that he had used on Cobra, and who knows how many others, and kicked the sword out of de Soto's hand, sending it spinning into the dust.

But he ended the spin, not with the dagger which had magically appeared in his left hand at de Soto's throat, but plunged deep into his chest, piercing his heart. The plaza was completely silent, so everyone heard the Capitán's final hissed words: "I hereby sentence you to death!"

Felipe pulled the dagger back out, and stood with it, watching de Soto. Diego couldn't read Felipe's eyes; they were unfathomable. De Soto choked and gasped, trying and failing to even bring his hands up to his chest.

Felipe shifted his feet, and Diego knew what he was about to do a heartbeat before he did it. Nearly in slow motion, Felipe whirled once more, and brought his right boot up to connect with de Soto's temple in a sharp crack that echoed from one side of the plaza to the other. He came to a stop and stood straight and tall, staring ahead at nothing, even as the former alcalde, Ignacio de Soto, scourge of Los Angeles for a decade, fell to the stones in a heap and died there instantly.

A long silent moment later, the crowd erupted in cheers. Even the Lancers and the former partisans joined in, rhythmically slapping their palms against their rifle stocks in the way of soldiers applauding. The Capitán, seeming deaf to it all, panted and stared. Only the de la Vegas on the porch remained silent.

Diego gave Victoria a slight squeeze, whispered "Excuse me," in her ear, and turned and went into the cantina. He grabbed one of the few remaining unbroken bottles of whiskey and a shot glass off the shelf, walked into the little office, shut the door, and sat heavily in the chair at the desk, utterly drained.


	50. Chapter 50

**FIFTY**

An hour or so later came a knock on the office door, and Felipe stuck his head in. "May we join you?" he asked, then grinned as he raised a shot glass. "I bring my own glass!"

Diego started to nod, then asked suspiciously, "Who's 'we'?"

Felipe's grin widened, and he pushed the door open further, revealing an infant tucked into his right elbow. "Have you met my son?" he asked as he walked in and, turning, shut the door again.

"No, I haven't," Diego returned the grin as he stood. "What is his name?"

"Agostino," was the reply. "Tino for short." He shrugged. "She likes the name."

Diego laughed and reached a finger to tickle the baby's tummy. "Hello, Tino. Oh, you're going to be a handsome one, aren't you?" Tino wasn't having it, though; his chin quivered as he whimpered, a worried look on his little face.

"He's not too sure about me yet," Felipe confided, still grinning.

"It's probably the beard," Diego teased his brother, who agreed, "Probably!" Felipe shushed the boy, setting the shot glass on the desk before bringing him smoothly up to his right shoulder and patting his back, and the baby settled down quickly.

"Well, I see your practice with Maria's baby paid off," Diego said blandly. Felipe didn't rise to the bait, smoothly agreeing that it had. "Have you met _my_ son?" Diego went on proudly.

"Yes, I have. Victoria introduced us just now – and said you were in here drinking?" The last word was distinctly astonished.

"Eh, not really. But I'd be happy to share one with you!" Diego added cheekily, then sat back down and poured the whiskey into the two glasses before Felipe could object. His brother, leaning his hips against the desk, accepted his glass with a wry smile, and they clinked the glasses and drank.

"All right," Felipe jumped in, "what is this about then? If you're not drinking, what are you doing?"

"Just thinking," Diego returned, purposely idly. "About a couple of things."

"Such as?" Felipe wasn't letting it go. This was very suspicious behavior on his brother's part, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.

Diego slowly shook his head, looking at the cubbyholes of the roll-top desk rather than up at Felipe. "Just... trying to sort out and untangle what I think and feel about what just happened. He waved a vague hand behind him at the plaza. "I've got all these different voices in my head, shouting different things."

"Such as?" Felipe repeated, urging him on.

Diego sighed. "One voice is saying he didn't deserve to die like that. Another is shouting 'of course he did'!" He shot a wry look upwards. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm can't help but agree with the second, just a bit." Felipe said nothing, so he went on. "A third is saying you took the law into your own hands, and went too far, but the fourth keeps reminding me, you _are_ the law now."

"But I still went too far?"

Diego hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted. "I can't judge that. And I promised that I wouldn't."

"But it still troubles you."

"The whole thing troubles me." He looked up again. "Can I ask you something?" Felipe nodded. "If he had dropped his sword, would you really have let him go?"

"Yup," came the immediate reply, surprising Diego, but then he went on. "Straight down to the port and onto a ship, in chains." Felipe shook his head. "No. He was _never_ going to just get away with how he ruled here as a tyrant for ten years."

Diego nodded again, absorbing that. Then, "And if I had asked you to let me handle it, would you have?"

Felipe stared at him a moment, shifting against the desk. "No," he finally admitted. "And this is why. I'm not ashamed of what I did today. My conscience can handle it. One more nail in that cross. Yours can't. You would not have been able to do what needed to be done – and yes, it needed to be. Not just for you or Father, but for _everyone_ out there. They all needed to see him pay, yes, with his life." He looked away a moment, sniffed deeply, and went on. "My men are moving all the bodies back to the warehouse – we'll bury them tomorrow. All but two. De Soto and Chaco," the outlaw leader, "are being propped up in the garrison guardhouse, so that everyone in the pueblo can see for themselves, that they really are dead. I have no doubt that by evening, every single person living here will have done so."

"Your men?" Unwilling to face that directly, Diego let himself be caught on a tangent. "What about the Lancers?"

"Them, too. I asked them to stay in uniform for one more day, to help me – us – watch over the fiesta we'll be having tonight in the plaza, to celebrate out independence. You missed that announcement." Diego should have known his brother would have seen him gone, he realized ruefully. The Capitán missed nothing. "They'll each make their decisions to stay or go tomorrow," Felipe concluded about the Lancers.

Suddenly, he twisted his neck to peer down at the baby on his shoulder and grimaced. "He's sucking on my shirt," he informed Diego sourly, and his brother laughed. "I need to remember to always hold him on my right shoulder," Felipe went on thoughtfully, making a mental note. "So he doesn't get his mouth on wherever Alaric has been." The hawk always sat on his left shoulder, on the leather patch he still sewed onto each shirt and jacket – even his new uniform pieces had them now.

Felipe had had enough of the former subject, so he changed it. "What else? You said you were thinking about a couple of things," he reminded Diego.

Diego missed very little himself – he knew when the subject was being changed, but he didn't object. "The future," he said succinctly. Holding out his two hands as if holding an open book on them, he explained, "Every chapter in my life until now... is suddenly closed." He slapped his hands lightly together like shutting a book, then lowered them to the chairs arms again. "I don't know who I am now. I'm not a student, a ranchero, a swordsman," he dipped his head towards the weapon still hanging from Felipe's side as if it had always been there. "I'm not a convict, a soldier – thank God! A farmer, a handyman, an alcalde, or caravan leader." He thought for a moment, then repeated. "I don't know who I am, who I will become. Father reminded me that I can become anything now, because no one here knows who I am. But I don't know who that is."

Felipe was mightily perplexed. "Yes, you do. You've always known." Taking a breath, he explained. "You might not know _what_ you are – what you will do for a living, your occupation. But you've _always_ known _who_ you are. That's never changed, either. Not even as a convict soldier. You told me yourself, Jaime told you to remember who you were, always, deep inside, and you did that." He paused a beat, struggling for the words. "Your occupation – that's _what_ you are. But _who_ you are... that's your thoughts, ideas, beliefs... your morals and ethics. That's what you taught me. And that's never changed." Another beat, then he repeated, quietly emphatic, "You know _who_ you are."

Bemused, struck by the wisdom of this young man he'd raised, all unaware of the boy's depths, Diego slowly nodded. Hadn't he spent all that time just that night while polishing the sword to figure out all those ethics questions? None of them had changed, after all. If he would have passed El Viejo's assignment now, it was purely on the basis of those ethics having become cemented, and truly lived and believed in.

"You're right," he said slowly. "No matter where I go or what I do, I'm the same inside. I _do_ know who I am by now. No matter where I go or what I do," he repeated, musing, "I'll always know who I am."

Glancing back up at Felipe, he was startled to see his brother concerned. "Are you leaving?" Felipe asked. "I thought..."

"No!" he said quickly. "I'm not going anywhere. Sorry, you misunderstood me. I'm staying here – staying home, for good."

Relief had flooded across Felipe, and he let out a huge puff of air. "Sorry," he mumbled. "You scared me." They each relaxed a minute, staring at their own thoughts, then Felipe looked at Diego again. "Then," he began hesitantly, "I have one more thing I must ask of you."

"Another?" Diego was perplexed, and a bit apprehensive. "What now?"

"Not for me, or anyone else. For you, yourself." Felipe paused, licking his lips nervously, then plunged in. "No more masks. Ever. I don't mean the one you wore as Zorro; I know you'll never put _that_ one on again." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'll never give you reason to!"

"You'd better not!" Diego laughed.

Felipe sat back, serious again. "I mean the one you wore as Diego – how you acted. I know, I know – I understand the reasons for it, I always have. But it was killing you," he ended, softly direct, then shrugged. "So stop. No more masks. Be yourself," he said carefully. "Always. With all people. Be who you are meant to be. Be the _leader_ you are meant to be – Alcalde," he added slyly.

Diego objected to that, however. "I can't be alcalde here – at least, not for two years, if you enact the rules we settled on for the elections you will hold." They had hashed many ideas out for the future of their pueblo on the long journey northwest.

Felipe shrugged, grinning to take off the sting. "So? That will just let everyone here get to know the real Diego de la Vega. And in two years, if you run for alcalde then, you'll win in a landslide. I'm sure of it." He waited a beat, then shrugged again, moving on. "Anyway. That's for the future. In the meantime... no more masks. Agreed?"

Diego didn't answer immediately. He was staring at the desk again, thinking, remembering all the struggles he had gone through those five years "playing at Zorro", and pretending as Diego to be a nobody, a wimp, to throw everyone off. To protect himself, and his family, from the Empire's wrath. And Felipe was right: it had nearly killed him. He recalled his reaction to Father, that day Felipe had disappeared, nearly punching out his frustration.

And then another voice crossed his mind, echoing as if from far, far away: "What had happened to him, that man in the mask, with his silver sword, and his golden tongue, and his zest for life? Where had he gone?" He vaguely recognized it as his own anguished voice, right after Felipe had rescued him from the army. Then he softly smiled. _He's right here,_ he thought. _I'm__ right__ here._

Still smiling, he looked back up at his brother, holding his infant son on his shoulder, and nodded. "No more masks," he agreed.

Felipe still looked a bit mulish. "I want to have your promise," he said.

That got a laugh. "All right," Diego agreed. "I promise. No more masks. Ever."

To his lasting surprise, Felipe glanced away at that, nodding, but not before Diego saw tears start to form in his brother's eyes. "What is that?" he asked. No response. "Felipe?"

After a long minute, Felipe looked back to him, a shy, uncertain, teary smile hovering, reminding Diego once more of the boy he had been. "Now, finally..." he began haltingly. "I have my brother – " a small gasp of exasperation at the term – "and the man who _really_ raised me... back from the dead." As Diego absorbed that startling admission, Felipe shifted Tino off his shoulder and into the crook of his left arm, then hitched around, and held out his right hand towards Diego, a proud, happy smile teasing his lips.

Diego slowly sat up straight, then reached and grasped Felipe's forearm, and they sat there for a long minute, clasping arms and smiling at each other – smiles and eyes that were finally, blessedly free of all the painful shadows that had haunted each of them for so long.


	51. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

_Five years later..._

The drifter was an old man, Don Alejandro realized, as old as himself. He watched from behind the bar as the stranger paused in the cantina doorway, blinking to adjust his eyes to the relative dark inside. When the drifter finally glanced his way, Don Alejandro raised the shot glass he was holding. "Whiskey?"

The stranger smiled. "Yes, thank you." He walked stiffly over to the bar. Don Alejandro took the moment as he drank the golden liquid to study the drifter further. His clothes, although old and worn, and a workingman's outfit, had the look of careful tending. He was an inch or so taller than Don Alejandro, and there was something slightly familiar about him, although he couldn't put his finger on it.

As he lowered the glass again, Don Alejandro commented, "You look as though you've come a long way."

"Yes, I have." He had the slightest trace of an accent, which again, Don Alejandro couldn't place just then. "Many, many miles – and many, many years, to come to this place."

"Well, in that case, we'd better see what we can do for you!" Don Alejandro gave him his friendliest smile.

"I am looking for a young man named..." he hesitated briefly, remembering a strange name, "uh... de la Vega. I was told I might find him here."

"Well, since you specify a _young_ man, that lets me out. But we do have two other de la Vegas to choose from." Leaning slightly to his side, he raised his voice a notch. "Alcalde! Capitán! This gentleman wishes to see one of you, but we are not sure which."

Across the way, Diego and Felipe rose from their usual table, where they had been going over the map of the area – constantly updated by Felipe's men as they did their rounds and improved their surveying skills. Diego, taller and closer, naturally reached the drifter first, holding his hand outstretched. "Good morning! I'm Alcalde Diego de la Vega. What can I do for you?"

Ignoring the outstretched hand, the drifter peered into Diego's face, seeming disappointed, then turned to Felipe, a step behind his brother. A beat... and then his face cleared, and he stared, his eyes widening, a tentative, wondering smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth, as if he'd seen an angel from heaven.

Felipe saw all this, and thought, too, that the man seemed somehow familiar. He rocked back a half step. "Do I know you?" he asked, puzzled.

"Do you?" the man replied, confusing everyone even further. Then he went on, to their astonishment. "You have the look of your father. When we were young, he looked like me."

Diego and his father gaped at each other, then turned back to Felipe. But their reaction was nothing compared to his. He went dead white, hardly daring to breathe. Finally, he got out, "_Tio Antonio?_"

"Si," was the reply, tears now starting in the old man's eyes. "Marco.. it _is_ you? The priest in the church at Marenga said you had sent the names of the family, for the plaque. It took me this long to find what had happened."

There was no doubt now in Diego's mind. This was Felipe's – Marco's – father's eldest brother, who had gone ahead of the family before Marco's birth and found the town they were trying to move to when they were massacred.

Dumbfounded, tears of joy already blurring his vision, Felipe Marco made himself step forward again, reached out a trembling hand, and for the first time in more than two decades (aside from his own two young children), touched his own flesh and blood.

_El Fin_


End file.
